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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Shelf 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






- * * 

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Rag Fair and May Fair. 


THE STORY 

OF 


“ME AND BENJE.” 



JULIA McNAIR WRIGHT, 

» 1 

AUTHOR OF “ ALMOST A NON,” “ AMONG THE ALASKANS,” 
LADDIE,” “THE HEIR OF ATHOLE,” ETC. 


“ GRAHAM’S 


3 


r 


11 1 have compassion on the multitude.” 


t 


PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 
AND SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK, 

No. 1334 CHESTNUT STREET. 






COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY 

THE TRUSTEES OK THE 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 
AND SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK. 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 


Westcott & Thomson, 
Stereotypers and Electrotypers , Philada, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB I. 

PAGE 


The Queen 9 

CHAPTER H. 

The Other Queen 30 

CHAPTER m. 

A Multitude of Counselors 48 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Loss of the Ewe-Lamb 73 

CHAPTER V. 

St. Bride’s Foundation 93 

CHAPTER VI. 

In Poplar Court 112 

CHAPTER VII. 

Rag Fair and May Fair Meet 134 


3 


4 


CONTENTS : 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PAGE 

Up Bethnal Green Way 154 

CHAPTER IX. 

West End and East End 167 

CHAPTER X. 

London Lodgings 182 

CHAPTER XI. 

A Students’ Paradise 199 

CHAPTER XII. 

Betty and the Charmer 212 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Through Evil Days 226 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Favors of Fortune . 243 

CHAPTER XV. 

In the Night 262 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Succeeding of Success 273 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Wherein Crooked Places are Made Straight . . 285 


FORE-THOUGHT. 

EAST LONDON. 

’Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead 
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 

And the pale weaver through his windows seen, 

In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited. 

I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 

“111 and o’erworked, how fare you in this scene?” 

“ Bravely,” he said, “ for I of late have been 
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ the Living Bread.” 

O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
Set up a mark of everlasting light 
Above the howling senses’ ebb and flow 

To cheer thee and to right thee if thou roam, 

Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night : 

Thou makest the heaven thou hopest indeed thy home. 

Selected. 


5 







RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


CHAPTEE I. 

THE QUEEN. 

“T3 ICHAED, will it never be five o’clock?” 

Eichard, kneeling by the grate, turned from 
the flame that he was assiduously nursing. The red 
and yellow tongues of fire, gleaming on the boy’s 
face, set it in high relief, like some strong work in 
bronze. One long shaft of light struck across the 
garret to that narrow bed and limned against the 
gloom Gran’s weird and haggard head, less like 
humanity than like that ominous standard woven 
with incantations for the Danes of old by the sis- 
ters of Hubba and Hinguar. 

“ Eichard, it’s a whole day — twenty-four hours, I 
know.” 

“ Yes, Gran,” with a boy’s indifference to time ; 
“ it’s five.” 

“ Then why don’t you get me a bottle of gin ?” 
and, as Eichard felt under her pillow for the old 
purse and fumbled for a sixpence or so, “ Be quick, 
can’t you ? I feel so bad — so ’most awful bad.” 

7 


8 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


There was such real distress in her tones that the lad 
was moved to pity. He knew of but one panacea 
for this woman’s woes; that he cordially proffered: 

“ Gran, sha’n’t I get you two bottles of gin ?” 

“ Two bottles 9 !” with thirsty eagerness ; then, in 
high complaint, “ You boy, why do you talk like 
that ? I can’t have two bottles. One a day — only 
one ; I swore it on a bone of a dead man’s finger, 
and a nail out of a coffin, and other things. I can’t 
break it, Richard ; I daren’t.” She had more 
reverence for her oath made over relics than had 
one Harold, a Saxon. “ Boy, will you get me that 
gin ?” 

It was but a few minutes before Richard was back 
and had placed the bottle in the outstretched claw- 
like, shaking hands. Hands of lover held out to 
clasp the white hands of his bride, hands of mother 
reaching for the first touch of her first-born, were 
never more eager than those brown, shriveled, dis- 
honorable hands to seize the cause of her woe. Hag- 
gard head and shining bottle disappeared under the 
bedclothes. There was the sound of gurgling, the 
bottle slid empty to the floor. 

Richard had not tarried for this denouement. 
He went back to his fire, and to the six-year-old lad 
who crouched before it. He put his arm over the 
little fellow’s shoulders and asked in a strong, cheery 
voice, 

“ Tired, Benje ? Cold, Benje ? Hungry, Benje ?” 


THE QUEEN. 


9 


“ No,” said Benje, denying facts valiantly, for his 
small legs had trotted East-London streets all the 
raw November day. “ We got a lot of wood and 
cinders, didn’t we, Richard ? An’ we’ve got a good 
fire, ain’t we, Richard? That’s a nice crusty loaf, 
Richard for Richard had under his arm a long, 
round, well-browned loaf. 

One loaf a day was the sole contribution from 
Gran’s purse to the maintenance of these two. 
Richard paid twopence ha’penny for the loaf, when 
he paid fourpence for the gin, and he was far too 
wise a twelve-year-old to get other than a stale loaf. 
“ There’s twice the eating in a stale loaf, Benje,” he 
would remonstrate when Benje would whine, “Hot 
loaves smell so good, Richard !” 

“ Oh, I say, Richard !” 

Richard turned about with reluctance. The stair- 
way went down from the room without grace of 
door or partition, and now over the flooring ap- 
peared a lean face under a shock of tangled hair. 
It was not the first time this disordered red pow 
had appeared as by enchantment through the floor 
just after Richard brought home his loaf. He knew 
it meant less supper for him. 

“ Come along, Betty,” he said. 

“I’m something of a gentleman ’bout girls,” 
Richard was wont to remark. “ I don’t b’lieve in 
hitting of them, nor crowding them into the mud, 
nor snatching away their supper. I can get on with- 


10 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


out supper better than Betty ;” so he made room for 
Betty before the cupful of fire in the grate. 

But Bichard was just as well as generous: he 
could not trench on Benje's allowance. He cut the 
loaf in half, and, dividing one half into two parts, 
gave Benje one part for supper and laid the other 
on the shelf for Benje's breakfast. The other half 
of the loaf was cut in three equal shares, and of 
these Betty got one. 

“ Nothin’ to-day, Betty?” 

“ Got a biscuit for cleanin' a step this mornin'.” 

“ Thought your father got work ? Where is he ?” 

“ 'Orspital,” said Betty, with her mouth full. 

“ Leg broke?” 

“ Both legs. 'E's all broke ; Vs goin' to die. 
You see, Vs been h’out'n work for eight months, 
an' Vs 'ad mos' nothin' to eat, an' 'e got so weak 
that when 'e got work an' went up on the scatfold 
bricklayin’ 'is head turned, an' 'e fell down. 'E’d 
go about all day nigh clemmed 'cause we none of us 
'ad only bread-soup an' 'e didn't want to take that 
from mother an' the kids. Mother can't make but 
tenpence a day with button-’oles, an' there's the five 
kids, countin' Aggie, an' she's the same as a kid, 
bein' humpbacked an' weakly. Father says to me, 
1 All we can do for they, Betty, is not to eat their 
grub;' an' I don't eat it. I tell 'em I've had — 
Oh, chops an' puddin', but mostly I am so hungry ! 
What a nice fire, Richard!” 


THE QUEEN. 


11 


“ Me an’ Benje begins early in the day, an’ we 
picks up cinders an’ splinters all day, an’ so we has 
a fire every night. We keep right at work all day.” 

“You might burn that box, you know,” said 
Betty. 

“ Pm keepin’ that lest Benje should be sick some 
night an’ we’d need a fire.” 

Betty contemplated with wonder the spectacle of 
a boy who with steady will worked all day for his 
fire, and even had resolution to provide against 
future need. Then, 

“ What a nice bed you’ve got, Richard !” 

“ Yes, I’m rather of a gentleman about my bed,” 
said Richard. “ Jacob owns the sack, an’ he has 
it washed twice a year reg’lar. Me an’ Benje fills 
it. We takes a bag, and we picks up every bit of 
paper an’ every bit of straw or every straw bottle- 
cover, and we puts it all in our bed. When it 
mashes down, we takes an evening to pick it up fine ; 
an’ when it is all wore out, we has one last good of 
it, as we burns it for a big blaze. — Don’t we, Benje ?” 

“ My !” said the admiring Betty. 

Such pertinacity and providence as this boy ex- 
hibited were not common traits in Miracle Alley. 
The citizens of this part of London would sleep on 
bare boards the year round before thinking of pro- 
viding a bed by ceaseless, if small, labor. 

“ When I don’t have what I wants, I gets it,” 
said Richard, in his resolute tones. 


12 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ You’d oughter see father’s bed in the ’orspital, 
all white an’ warm an’ soft ! An’ he has soup an’ 
meat three times a day, if he could eat ’em ; which 
he can’t. I wisht I could go to the ’orspital,” said 
Betty, ardently. 

“ It’s time you went home ; me an’ Benje is going 
to bed,” said Richard, not u too much of a gentle- 
man” to dismiss his guest when he saw reason. 

Betty disappeared through the floor, and Richard 
pulled the narrow tick before the grate. 

“ You shall sleep on the fire side, Benje, and be 
as warm as warm !” said Richard, quite as if Benje 
did not always have this post of preference ; then, 
with austerity, “ Benje, you’ve forgot to wash your 
face an 1 hands.” 

“ I washed ’em when you was after the gin,” said 
Benje. 

“ All right, then,” said Richard. He made no 
remark about Benje’s not having said his prayers ; 
that was a ceremony outside of his experience, but 
the practice of washing before sleeping had come 
down to him from forgotten ages before he and 
Benje lived in a garret with Gran, and he was 
zealous in its observance. 

“ I’m rather of a gentleman about havin’ a clean 
face,” Richard would remark to the docile Benje. 
He gave a last poke to the fire, to make it blaze, that 
they might fall asleep warm even if they woke cold. 

Why this pair had not been burned to death in 


THE QUEEN. 


13 


their paper-filled bed only that Providence which 
watches the helpless could have told. Certainly no 
assurance society would have taken a risk on their 
bed or their lives at any premium. 

Richard was just sinking into his usual dreamless 
sleep, when high, querulous, came the voice of 
Gran : 

“ Richard ! Call Jacob !” 

Richard’s head lay near the opening in the floor — 
so near that more than once his folded trowsers, 
which served him for a pillow, had slipped from 
under his head and tumbled down into the cobbler’s 
shop. He had only to roll over, stretch his neck 
beyond the flooring and bawl “ Jacob !” 

A slow, measured step sounded below and ascended 
the stairs ; a snow-white head and a reverend beard, 
then broad bent shoulders, then a tall figure in a 
long rusty black garment like a Jewish gaberdine, 
rose above the floor- level, and Jacob, with a dim 
little lamp in his hand, crossed the garret and 
sat on a backless chair beside Gran’s bed. The pale 
circle of the lamplight illuminated a grave and aged 
Jewish face. 

“ Richard,” gasped Gran, “ count my money.” 

Richard took out the purse and told the slender 
sum ; he had never before known how much was in 
that purse. f 

“ Do you want some more gin, Gran ?” \ 

“ I’ve — had — my last gin,” said the old woman, 


14 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


between her gasps and groans. — “ Jacob, my rent’s 
paid till Saturday.” 

“ Yes,” said Jacob. 

“The money’s lasted me through; he said it 
would. Saturday you can carry me out ; it’s Thurs- 
day night. There’s what will buy me a coffin an’ 
pay the hearse ; bury me decent, Jacob.” 

“ Oh, Gran, Gran,” cried the startled Richard, 
“ you won’t die ! Don’t ! I’ll — I’ll run for another 
bottle of gin.” 

“ Hush, boy,” said the Jew. “ Her hour is come, 
and such noise is unseemly in the ears of Azrael.” 

The amazed Richard looked down upon her whom 
he had called his grandmother. Her face was drawn 
and pallid ; her eyes, deep-sunken, seemed already 
looking at him across a very great space. Richard 
had been with Benje to the seashore, and this was 
as when he had stood upon the strand and marked 
something each moment carried farther and farther 
out by the retreating sea. Fascinated, he watched 
this miserable human wreckage drifting out and 
out upon an ebb-tide that should never come to 
flow. 

Farther and farther away each instant. Now Gran 
was here, near him ; now she was swept a great way 
off. She was widening between them each second 
some eternal distance. The shriveled body was there 
on the pallet, but that which had really been Gran 
was slipping longitudes remote on some infinite ocean, 


THE QUEEN. 


15 


and was now nearly out of sight. There was only 
a mere speck of vitality gleaming through her eyes, 
appearing and disappearing on each wave of labor- 
ing breath, that spark of life becoming constantly 
feeble and more indistinct and drifting against an 
all-unknown horizon. 

“ Go to your bed, boy ; I will watch by her,” said 
Jacob. 

Richard shivered back to his bed. He did not 
mean to sleep. He rested his elbow on his folded 
trowsers, his head on his hand, and watched the 
progress of the mystery. A low, broken rattling 
sound now filled the attic ; the quilt over Gran’s 
heart rose and fell with the fluctuations of that 
slowly-retreating tide. 

But Richard was only twelve years old, and weary. 
He had spent the day racing up and down the streets 
in the November cold. His arm supporting his 
head grew unsteady. The lids kept falling over the 
great eagerly-gazing black eyes. There seemed to 
him longer and longer intervals when Gran went 
entirely out of sight upon those waves on which she 
was tossing. Finally he had sunk quite down in 
his paper-filled bed, and slept as soundly as Benje. 

He woke up with a start. It seemed only a 
moment, but things had changed in the attic. It 
was a woman’s voice that mingled with returning 
consciousness : 

“ Well, well, Mis’ Brewer ! To think she should 


16 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


have kept this long nightgown and this clean sheet 
all these years to lay her out in !” 

“ Yes, and everything else gone bare as bare ! Make 
yourself comfortable in the chair if you can, Mis’ 
Lane. Til sit on this trunk; it’s empty enough 
now, and ready to drop to bits, but I’m not heavy.” 

Richard lifted himself up on his elbow again. 
On the narrow bed lay something very straight 
and still, covered with a white sheet. The lamp 
seemed to have reached happier fortunes in a clean 
chimney and a fresh supply of oil, and burned 
briskly on the window-sill. Two neighbor-wDmen 
sat, one at the head, the other at the foot, of what had 
been Gran. But between Richard and Gran widen- 
ed a gulf that is named “ Forever.” The tide had 
run quite out and carried Gran away. 

Here was a mystery. Richard had known of 
death. He had seen men, and women too, carried 
lifeless out of street-brawls ; he had seen the baby- 
heirs of poverty fade and fall as the leaves of the 
starveling trees in the city church-yards ; grim pine 
boxes had often been taken out of the houses in 
Miracle Alley ; but what did it all mean ? What 
was this death, and what came after it ? There was 
no need to interrogate the women ; they were gar- 
rulous. As Richard, unnoticed on his elbow, looked 
and listened, Mrs. Brewer rose, turned down the sheet 
and gazed at whatever lay beneath. 

“ She be a fearsome sight, Mis’ Lane,” she said. 


THE QUEEN. 


17 


u She ’ave a very wicked look, an’ to think h’of ’er 
000110’ h’up h’out o’ ’er grave lookin’ that a-way to 
stand before God for judgment ! It’s main fear- 
some.” 

“ You make cold chills run down my back, Mis’ 
Brewer,” responded Mrs. Lane, in an awed tone, 
“ you talkin’ so familiar like o’ judgment. What’s 
the truth about it, ma’am, if you know?” 

“ Well, I know,” said Mrs. Brewer, “for last Mon- 
day as ever was our Lady ’as ’olds h’our mothers’ 
meetings, she ’ad it all up giving us chapter and 
verse about the last day, and I sat as if growed and 
rooted to my chair to ’ear the like of it. The first 
thing is, Mis’ Lane, that He above ’as appointed a 
day to judge the world. He knows the time, and 
he alone, and, whether soon or late, it will be sure 
to come. Alive and dead, young and old, rich and 
poor, are to come and stand before Him.” 

“But how is it to be, Mis’ Brewer? Did you 
hear that?” 

“ I ’eard. There is to sound a great trumpet, loud 
as ten thousand thunders, and the earth shall be 
rent and all the graves shall be opened, and the 
living shall come as drawn by a power they can’t 
refuse, Mis’ Lane. And there will be the Lord on 
his throne, and millions of angels about him as sun, 
moon and stars are not so bright as to be named 
along with them for shining. We’ll be there also 
Mis’ Lane, ma’am, for good or evil.” 

2 


18 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ If one wasn’t afraid, it would be a grand sight,” 
said Mrs. Lane. 

“ You’ll mark my words, Mis’ Lane. Them as 
has loved the Lord Jesus Christ, to lay their sins 
on him, of them on that day he will not be ashamed, 
but they shall be caught up to meet him in the air 
and be for ever with the Lord, at the meeting we 
has been told a many is the time. There is to be a 
dividin’, mark you — not a dividin’ of rich and poor, 
or of East End and West End, but of those as loves 
the Lord and those as loves him not. For them 
who loves him it is said their sins are all blotted 
out, and not one of them is mentioned to them, but 
’tis a loving Father calls his children ’ome, as says 
a ’im we sings frequent at the meeting. But there 
is books kep’, Mis’ Lane, as careful as at the greatest 
shop in all this city, and out of them the wicked is 
to be judged ; and so much as every evil word and 
every wicked thought and every cruel deed is all 
writ in them books.” 

“ It will be a woeful time for them wicked, Mis’ 
Brewer.” 

“ It will be a woeful time for us, Mis’ Lane, if 
we ’av’n’t. seen to it to make peace with God through 
the Lord Christ. In that day the wicked will be 
cryin’ to the rocks to fall on ’em an’ hide ’em from 
the face of ’Im upon the throne.” 

“ I wisht I been at that meetin’,” sighed Mrs. Lane. 

“ Why don’t you go, then ?” asked her neighbor. 


THE QUEEN. 


19 


“ They’re quit askin’ of me. Once they askt and 
askt, but my man he said if I went a step e’d kill me 
sure. ’E didn’t want no pious ones ’round ’im, ’e ’eld.” 

“ There’s where he was main foolish, Mis’ Lane ; 
for if there is one thing as gives me courage to put 
hup with ’ard work an’ poor livin’, to give a civil 
word to Brewer when things goes wrong, an’ to 
struggle on to keep the children from bein’ like 
brute beasts, it is what I learns h’out of the Bible 
at mothers’ meetin’. There’s a book, Mis’ Lane, as 
raises my courage an’ gives me a bit of ’ope. It 
mentions a Friend that do stick closer than a brother, 
and we need such a one.” 

“ Now that Lane’s dead, I s’pose I might go, ” 
said Mrs. Lane. 

“ Well you might. What did infidelity do for 
Lane? You’d better bring your children up to lay 
hold to something better.” 

But here the talk of these women ceased to enter 
Richard’s drowsy ear. 

It was on Saturday that they buried Gran, as she 
had asked. Jacob was a Jew shoemaker who shut 
his shop and scrupulously observed his Sabbath. 
Therefore, on Saturday, he had nothing to do but 
bury his tenant. He gave Richard and Benje plenty 
of soap and hot water, and free use of his clothes- 
brush and blacking-brush, to make themselves as 
decent as possible. Mrs. Lane had washed a shirt 
for each of them, and Mrs. Brewer gave them each 


20 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


a threepenny handkerchief with a black border. 
Richard had never felt “ so like a kind of gentle- 
man ” in his life as he did when he and Benje walked, 
one on each side Jacob, to the burial-field and he 
reflected that he had a share in the respectable- 
looking long black conveyance drawn by two horses 
at which all the children in Miracle Alley had gazed. 

When they came home, it was noonday. Jacob 
established the two boys before his fire and gave 
them each a large sandwich. Then he went out for 
some time. Returning, he went up to the attic of 
his late tenant. There were sounds there which 
Richard interpreted as Mistress Brewer, the char- 
woman, giving the place its half-yearly cleaning. 

“ What’s to become of them boys, Jacob ?” asked 
Mrs. Brewer. 

“ I’ve been to see the relieving-officer, and I’m to 
take them to the almshouse.” 

“ Poor little chaps !” said Mrs. Brewer, with an 
English hatred of “ the house.” “ That’s cruel hard 
on ’em. They do be dreadful to boys there, I’m 
told.” 

“ It is not half as hard as freezing and starving 
in the street, stealing and getting arrested and locked 
up with a lot of thieves to get schooled in all the 
wickedness there is in the world. Besides, Richard 
won’t stop there long. They’ll keep Benje and bind 
Richard out.” 

a It would just kill Richard to leave Benje. Why, 


THE QUEEN. 


21 


since he warn’t much over six, he’s been carrying 
Benje round, and raising him like a father and a 
mother both. An’ now to part ’em !” 

“ It’s hard. But did you ever see anything in this 
world wasn’t hard ?” retorted Jacob. 

“ No, I never did. It’s as bad as they make ’em,” 
said Mrs. Brewer, conscious of a drunken husband, 
frequent black eyes, seven days charing in a week 
and a family of six to maintain on a hebdomadal 
seven shillings and sixpence.* 

“ Benje,” whispered Richard to his drowsy little 
brother, “ are you very tired ?” 

“ No , I ain’t tired,” said Benje, bristling up. 

“ Don’t you want to come to the fountain for a 
drink?” 

“ Oh yes !” said Benje, who hated mortally to leave 
the fire, but made a principle of always wanting to 
do what Richard suggested. 

“ Come on, then,” said Richard ; and, taking his 
brother’s hand, the two went out into the street with 
unusual quietness. 

“Why, Richard,” said Benje, after about five 
minutes’ walking, “ you ain’t going to the fountain.” 

“ We’ll find one this way, Benje,” said Richard, 
valiantly. “ I’m giving you a treat. I’m taking 
you to see a — a — a picture, Benje. You see, we’re 
all dressed up like, and we’ve had a funeral to-day, 
* Reckon two cents to a penny, twenty-four cents to a shilling. 


22 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


and so Pm giving you a treat, Benje. Come on ! 
Don’t you think it’s an elegant day, Benje ?” 

No ; Benje did not think it was an elegant day ; 
he thought it was what it was — a raw, windy, dull 
November day. But then Richard, whose right 
it was to formulate Benje’s opinions, had said it was 
“ elegant,” and so Benje roused up and said, “ Oh, 
it’s bu-tee-ful,” but his teeth chattered like castanets. 

On, on went the remorseless Richard toward a part 
of the town where they had seldom or never been 
before. There were now to be seen large shops — 
tailor-shops with very brilliant-complexioned and 
glassy-eyed men and boys posing unmeaningly in 
the windows. Benje confided to Richard his sur- 
prise that these elegant beings never winked, and 
Richard said autocratically, 

“ Oh, they’re not made of the same kind of stuff 
we are, Benje. They’re wax.” 

Then they saw great stores full of flowers — or- 
chids, roses, lilies, geraniums, hyacinths, violets. 
Through the chinks in the glass and through the 
doorways their rich perfumes stole out, and refreshed 
the noses of Richard & Co. as the glorious colors re- 
freshed their eyes. 

Then Benje could not help saying he was dread- 
fully cold, and Richard said, 

“ Put your hand in my pocket, Benje, and put 
your other hand under your jacket and Richard 
put his arm around Benje’s shoulders. 


THE QUEEN. 


23 


“ Why don’t we go back ?” whined Benje. “ It’s 
’most to-night, and Jacob’s fire was so good, and I 
want to go to bed.” 

“ Benje,” said Bichard, solemnly, “ we’re never 
going back there no more. We’ve run away. Jacob 
was going to take us and put us in a House. ” 

“ What’s a house?” said Benje’s querulous voice. 

“ A house,” quoth the enlightened Richard, “ is a 
dreadful place where — where they never let you 
go out of doors, and where they’d part you and me, 
Benje, and never let us see each other again.” 

Here Benje burst into tears and implored Richard 
to run ; he wasn’t a bit tired — not he. 

Richard ran two or three squares to please and 
warm the child, but then assured him there was no 
danger ; Jacob would not trouble to look for them, 
and could not find them if he did look. 

After this, very luckily, they came to a fruit-stand 
where some apples had been over-set and were roll- 
ing about the walk. They helped the vender pick 
the apples up, and were given each a big one. This 
cheered Benje for a time. But now it was very 
cold and the lamps were lighted. 

“ Where’s the picture, Richard?” said the little 
complaining voice. 

“ Why, here it is,” said Richard, boldly, “ across 
the street. Just you look at the frame, Benje— 
solid gold and worth a cart-load of money.” 

They crossed the street. The principal picture in 


24 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


the dealer’s window was that of a rather young lady. 
She wore a pale blue brocade dress, her neck and 
arms very bare ; a crimson velvet cloak, ermine-lined 
and trimmed, hung from her shoulders and trailed 
away upon the floor, and a golden and jeweled 
circlet bound her brows. 

“ Ain’t that handsome, Benje?” 

“ Why don’t she,” whined Benje — “ why don’t 
she put her shawl around her neck an’ arms? I 
should think she’d be so cold ! Why does she let 
all those nice clothes lie on the floor, Richard ? Oh, 
I wish I had her shawl all lined with fur to put on 
me ! I’d not let it lie on the floor, and I’d be so 
warm ! Oh, Richard, why can’t I have a fur shawl 
like that? Why can that picture have everything ? 
Who is she, Richard ? Who is she ? Why can’t 
you tell me who she is ?” 

Benje was getting decidedly cross. 

“ I don’t know, Benje,” soothed Richard ; “ I’d 
tell you if I knew. I guess she’s a lady, Benje.” 

“ I think you might know,” mourned the cold, 
hungry and inconsolable Benje. u Why don’t you 
know everything, Richard ? What’s the use o’ 
bringing me to see a picture with a fur shawl like 
that, and never telling me her name ?” 

“ Well, I wish I knew ; I’d tell you in a minute.” 

A young man looking over their heads at the pict- 
ure laughed : 

“Why, boys, can’t you read? It’s the queen. 


THE QUEEN. 


25 


Can’t you see what it says ? — ‘ Portrait of Her Maj- 
esty. Painted for St. George’s Society f and so on. 
Yes, my little men, that’s the queen.” 

“ There ! he knew,” whined Benje as the young 
man went his way. “ But I wish the queen would 
give me her fur shawl, Richard.” 

Well, the trailing mantle of royalty might be put 
to worse use than covering shivering childhood, but 
the smiling picture was oblivious as its original of 
the needs of Benje, and he whimpered on : 

“ What’s in her hand, Richard ? Is she going to 
play ball ? Ain’t that a queer-looking ball with a 
thing on top of it ? And ain’t that a queer bat she’s 
got ? And how can she run with that fur shawl ?” 
after which irreverent remarks about sceptre, 
globe and train Benje went stumbling up the street 
by Richard’s side, and presently complained that 
he was very tired indeed, and “so cold ! Couldn’t 
we sit down just one minute, Richard ?” 

“ Oh yes, Benje,” said Richard, with strained 
cheerfulness. “There’s an elegant doorway over 
across the street. You can get down in front of me 
and lean against me and put your arms around my 
waist, under my jacket, and I’ll hold you close, Benje, 
and bring my jacket about you, and you’ll be so 
warm ! You’ll sleep splendid.” 

Benje had profound misgivings about the luxury 
of the accommodations proffered, but his small legs 
felt ready to fall off ; so he trotted with Richard to 


26 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


the deep doorway of an unoccupied building just 
around the corner of the street. Richard tied a 
black-bordered kerchief round Benje’s throat and 
one about his own, turned up their jacket-collars, 
took Benje between his knees, and, holding him 
close, said, 

“ Now sort of sit on your feet, Benje, and you’ll 
do splendid.” 

Lying against Richard’s breast, Benje saw the 
file of straight brick houses on each side the narrow 
street. A gaslight nearly opposite the sheltering 
doorway, with here and there a lighted room in va- 
rious stories, defined the houses from pavement to 
roof, but above the roofs hung infinite blackness. 
That dark pall disturbed Benje ; he began : 

“ Richard, where are the stars ?” 

“ They’re gone,” said Richard, as if explaining 
phenomena arranged for the especial good fortune 
of himself and his little brother. “ They never 
come out dark nights. It’s cloudy now, Benje.” 

“ Richard, what is stars? Won’t you tell me? 
What is stars ?” 

“ Stars’? Well, Mary Lane told me stars was 
God’s eyes.” 

“ Who’s God ?” whined Benje. “ Ain’t he the 
one Mary Lane’s father used to talk about when he 
got mad ? Who’s God, Richard ?” 

But Richard — one of the frequent heathen of this 
very enlightened age — had not enough theological 


THE QUEEN. 


27 


knowledge to answer his brother’s question. Like 
greater teachers, he evaded a difficulty by starting a 
new issue : 

“Tom Brewer says stars is dead people’s eyes 
looking down.” 

“ Do you believe it, Richard ? Are they ? S’pose 
they’re Gran’s ?” 

But Richard, recalling how the light had flickered 
and faded in Gran’s eyes as she drifted out of life, 
could liken her dying eyes only to the gleaming and 
perishing of sparks on a dying coal. 

“No,” he said — “no, Benje; ’tain’t so. Dead 
folks couldn’t see so far. The stars are too big and 
bright for that.” 

Poor Benje was so uncomfortable that he wanted 
to complain about something. The stars afforded 
as hopeful a subject as anything that was sublunary. 
His little tired voice whined : 

“ Why don’t the stars shine all the time ? Why 
ain’t they warm, like the sun ? Why is it ever cold ? 
Why is it ever night ? I think the stars might — ” 

But Benje’s complaints grew lower and more 
broken ; and Benje was asleep. 

Then Richard, just to shelter Benje and keep him 
warm, you know — not at all that he himself was 
cold or tired — bent his face against Benje’s head, and 
so — Richard too fell asleep. 

Then out of the black vault above the city wa- 
vered down little cold white flakes and pellets, and 


28 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


settled in the wrinkles of Richard’s jacket-sleeves, 
along the lines of the two turned-up collars, upon 
the caps and into the pockets of these sleepers ; and 
so, at last, if left undisturbed at their work, the 
flakes might have covered up these two small boys 
as the robins covered with leaves the Babes in the 
Woods. 

The narrow street was quiet and deserted. The 
guardian of the public peace seldom looked in there ; 
when he did, he was so busy blowing his fingers 
and beating his arms about his chest to keep himself 
warm that he could not see the sleeping brothers. 

It was that very uncomfortable little lad Benje 
who woke first, hearing these words : 

“ Why, children ! Boys, wake up ! You’ll freeze 
to death. Whatever are you doing here?” 

Benje opened his eyes. There, in the glow of the 
street-lamp, stood the queen, come out of her picture- 
frame to help them. The unframed queen was 
younger than she of the print-shop window. She 
had her hair curled across her forehead under the 
golden crown. Her neck and her arms were not 
bare, but gleamed in red satin embroidered in gilt. 
About her neck was a chain as thick as Benje’s fin- 
ger, holding a medallion almost as large as a door- 
knob. Benje could not see the “ fur shawl,” but he 
fancied it, as something voluminous fell from the 
shoulders of this brilliant creature. 

Benje punched his brother’s ribs : 


THE QUEEN. 


29 


“Richard! Richard! Wake up! She’s come! 
The queen has come out of the picture to help us.” 

Then Richard looked up, and on the instant was 
wide awake, beholding the glowing red cheeks and 
the laughing lips of their visitant. 

“ Why are you here ?” demanded the vision. “ Why 
don’t you go home? Where do you live?” 

“We are resting. Benje was so tired ! He’s little, 
you know. We don’t live anywhere ; we haven’t 
any home. We had one, but it’s — died,” said Rich- 
ard, vaguely. 

“ Really not a place to go to ? No mother ? No 
father? No friends? Nobody?” 

The stranger gave her questions in quick sequence, 
and to each one Richard punctuated “ No !” 

“Well, then, come along home with me. It is 
not far.” 

“ Are you the queen ?” demanded Benje, stagger- 
ing to his feet. 

“ The queen ! ” with a laugh that rippled out clear 
in night and storm. “ No ! I’m the Serpent- 
Charmer.” 


CHAPTER II. 


THE OTHER QUEEN. 

I N and out the crooked London street went the 
Charmer with the air of one accustomed to thread- 
ing highways and byways in the darkness — through 
a mews, into a “ no thoroughfare,” up two pairs of 
stairs, into a room, and, putting a hand on the 
head of each boy, she pressed the forlorn brothers 
down upon their knees before a glowing grate. 

“ There ! ” said the Serpent-Charmer. 

Beside the fire sat a clean old woman in a wide 
ruffled cap and a check shoulder-shawl. She was 
knitting very slowly, her hands being gnarled and 
twisted with rheumatism until they were bent like 
the twigs of some ancient tree. 

“ What do you think, Gran ?” said the girl ; and 
she told the tale of finding the waifs. Then the 
girl disappeared in a little back room, and returned 
shorn of her splendors and wearing a brown flan- 
nel wrapper. 

Benje had been sorely disappointed at finding 
that his “ queen ” wore a great cloak of coarse 
waterproof instead of a sweeping “ fur shawl.” 
30 


THE OTHER QUEEN . 


31 


Now that she had neither crown, satin nor jewels, 
she fell rapidly iu his opinion, and he was just be- 
ginning to whine, “ Richard, why ain’t she the 
queen ?” when voices were heard at the door, and 
a girl of eleven came in — a girl with a deal of yel- 
low hair braided in a club down her back, a girl 
with a grievance, like Benje. 

“ Why is it always so late when I get in ? Why is 
it so cold ? Why must I always be tired to death ?” 
she cried. 

But the old woman rose, took five bowls from a 
closet, put a tin spoon in each, and filled each bowl 
from a savory pot that steamed and bubbled on the 
fire. The aroma of this pot, wafted to the nose of 
Benje, had already appeased him as incense appeases 
an irate god. What, then, was Benje’s satisfaction 
when the dame handed a bowl to every one, with 
the comfortable remark, “ There ! eat that, and 
we’ll all be better-natured ” ? 

For a little time nothing was to be heard but 
the sound made by the click of spoons and much 
unseemly supping. 

Benje was a grateful little chap. When all his 
small body seemed warmed and expanded by the 
glow of the grate and the first hot meal he had 
had for months, he was inspired thus to express 
himself : 

“ Gran, your soup’s awful good ! I like it. I 
like your fire. I like you. If you’ll let me live 


32 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


here, I’ll be pertic’lar good, an’ I’ll bring you your 
bottle of gin every day reg’lar.” 

“ What !” cried the astounded old lady. 

“ Your gin, you know,” explained Benje, affably. 

“ Bless you, boy ! Gin ! Why, I don’t want any 
gin.” 

“ Don’t you ? I thought all grans did.” 

“Mine is better conducted,” said the Charmer. 
“If she wasn’t, I’d shut her up. — Wouldn’t I, old 
lady ?” 

Benje regarded the phenomenal old lady. 

“Mine drank it,” he said, finally — “a bottle a 
day reg’lar.” 

“ What has become of the old sinner ?” asked 
the Charmer. 

“We planted her this mornin’,” said Benje, se- 
dately. “ I went to see it done. I know all about 
it ; Betty told me. When you plant seeds in the 
ground, you don’t put ’em in a box, an’ they come 
up ag’in ; when you plant folks, you nail ’em up 
tight in a box, ’cause you’re done with ’em, an’ they 
never come up no more.” 

Having thus told all that he knew about the 
resurrection and the life, Benje contemplated his 
audience. 

“ Well, I never !” cried the old lady. “A bottle 
a day !” 

“Didn’t she, Richard?” said Benje, feeling his 
veracity called in question, and nudging his brother. 


THE OTHER QUEEN. 


33 


“ It is so,” said Eichard, with dignity. — “ But I 
wisht you hadn’t mentioned it, Benje. I’m rather 
a gentleman in my feelin’s, an’ I know it isn’t re- 
spectable to drink gin. As long as Gran is planted, 
we ought to let her be.” 

Benje feeling that he had erred, retired behind 
Eichard and began to sniffle. The yellow-haired 
girl gloomily remarked that “dead folks is better 
off than live ones.” This drew to her the critical 
attention of the Charmer: 

“ Why, Elizabeth Allen ! You’ve come home 
without your throat tied up, and you’ve been out 
without your gum shoes, and your feet are all 
wet !” She stooped, took off Elizabeth Allen’s 
boots, set them on a shelf above the grate to dry, 
and then placed Elizabeth Allen’s feet properly 
before the fire, acting quite as if the feet were 
articles with which said Elizabeth had nothing in 
common. “ If you are so careless,” she said, se- 
verely, “you will not be able to sing a note.” 

“ Then,” said Elizabeth, “ I’d be done with such 
unpleasant, disgraceful work as singing at a six- 
penny show.” 

“ It is not so unpleasant to sing at a variety-hall 
as to starve,” said the Charmer, “ and not so dis- 
graceful as to go to the 1 house.’ What did you sing 
this evening, Elizabeth ?” 

“ I sang ‘ I’m a Little Quaker.’ I wish I was a 
Quaker out in the country, and I wouldn’t be sing- 


34 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


ing where I am. I hurried to get on my drab dress 
and white kerchief and hood just as fast as I knew 
how, but Mrs. Crosby gave me a slap for not being 
quicker, aud Mr. Crosby called me a fool as I went 
on the stage. Then I sang, in my other dress, my 
skipping-rope song and dance, and a big man on 
the front seat — he was drunk — called out to me to 
throw him a kiss and he’d throw me a shilling.” 

“ What did you do, Elizabeth ?” said the Charm- 
er, with great interest. 

“ I turned my back round to him and did all the 
rest of the song with my back to the audience.” 

“ That was right,” said the Charmer. 

“And the people clapped and clapped,” said Eliz 
abeth, still inconsolable. 

“ They saw you were right. You and I, Eliza- 
beth, who have no one to take care of us, must take 
care of ourselves. No one has been saucy to me 
since one man was impertinent and I took a snake 
by the tail and hit him with the head-end. But 
generally folks keep a civil tongue — always, unless 
they’ve been drinking. Drink, you see, disturbs 
their brains, and they forget what’s manners.” 

“ Elsie,” said the old dame to the Charmer, 
“where do you mean these boys to sleep?” 

“ They can sleep on Elizabeth’s lounge, and she 
can come in with me,” said the Charmer. — “ Can’t 
you sleep on the lounge, one at each end, boys? 
There is a big quilt there.” 


THE OTHER QUEEN. 


35 


“ Thank you, ma’am. We can,” said Richard. 
“May we go and wash? Me and Benje always 
takes a wash before we goes to bed.” 

“ That is right,” said the grandmother. “ I saw 
you were clean boys as soon as you came in.” 

Elsie brought forth a quilt for the lounge, and 
she and Gran retired to the next room. 

The despondent Elizabeth still sat toasting her 
feet. 

“ I wonder if she’ll let you stay ?” said Elizabeth, 
looking at the boys, who, having washed, returned 
to the fire. 

“ Oh, I wish she would,” said Richard. 

“You’d have to pay your way. We’re dreadful 
poor.” 

“ Of course I’d pay my way, and Benje’s too.” 

“ I wish she would let you stop. Maybe you’d 
believe me when I say everything is wrong and 
horrid; she won’t.” 

“ Who is she f What does she do ?” asked Rich- 
ard. 

“ She is snake-charmer at the Varieties. She gets 
fourteen shillings a week for charming. Did you 
see her dressed ? Well, she goes right in like that 
in a den full of snakes, and she sits on a stone or 
log, and she picks the snakes up — big ones, thick 
as your arm — and plays with them and fools with 
them, and isn’t one mite afraid of any one of them.” 

“ Oh my !” said Richard. 


36 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


u Oh my !” said Benje. 

“ She used to sell in Soho bazaar-store, and only 
got nine shillings a week. And I was cash-girl, 
for three shillings. Oh, but we were poor ! Gran 
knits. She took in a girl to board. The girl was 
a serpent-charmer at the Varieties. She told Elsie 
all about it — how most of the snakes they have 
aren’t poisonous, if they are big, and the fangs are 
cut out of the rest ; only you need to keep watch 
and see that they are not let grow. And she told 
Elsie how to handle ’em. Elsie isn’t afraid of any- 
thing. Elsie and the girl were great friends, and 
the girl got sick. She was afraid she’d lose her 
place ; to keep it for her, Elsie dressed up in her 
clothes and went and did Charmer for a week. 
They none of them knew the difference. But the 
other girl was taken to the hospital, and died, and 
then Mr. Crosby — the manager — asked Elsie to 
stay on ; and so she is Charmer, and gets fourteen 
shillings. Then she got me the place there to do 
‘ Little Musical Prodigy.’ I get eight shillings a 
week. It is no harder than being cash-girl. They 
are real hard on cash-girls, and they are real hard 
on prodigies. It is all just as horrid as it can be ; 
only now we have enough fire and enough to eat, 
and our feet don’t stick out of our shoes. I sup- 
pose that’s a comfort.” 

Bichard admitted that it was a great comfort. 

“ Elizabeth, come to bed,” said the autocratic 


THE OTHER QUEEN. 


37 


Charmer, thrusting from the bed-room door her 
pretty face set round with a bristling aureola of 
frizzing-pins. 

Richard quickly undressed himself and Benje, 
and took refuge on the wide lounge. He was 
warm, well fed ; the lounge was soft and well cov- 
ered. “One, two, three ” — so on to “twelve” — 
rang out a clock from a neighboring tower. Rich- 
ard heard the first stroke, but with the last was 
sleeping the sleep of the just. The next thing he 
heard was the same clock striking seven. He rose 
and looked from the window. No one else in the 
Charmer’s home seemed to be awake, but over the 
grimy city lay two inches of soft, new snow. Rich- 
ard dressed himself, took an old stump of broom 
from behind the door and went forth to make his 
living. 

The only place that seemed awake was the nearest 
“public.” Into the door marked “Jugs and Bot- 
tles Only” went a procession of wan, thin children 
for the morning potions of their elders. Blue with 
cold, ragged, with bare, chilblained, often bleeding 
feet on the snowy pave, too accustomed to misery 
to cry as other children cry, they went ; for Eng- 
land in the last quarter of the nineteenth century 
has no law against selling to minors, and no society 
for the prevention of cruelty to children.* 

In the doors marked “ Bar ” went men who had 
* Efforts to form such a society are now being made. 


38 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


slept out all night, burly cab-drivers, the men from 
the mews, wretched, draggled mothers with more 
wretched babes in arms. 

Richard was used to these sights ; he never gave 
them a thought. He cleaned off the walk, and 
asked the proprietor of the public for a penny. 

“ Off with you !” said the man. “ You did it 
without asking ; you can go without paying. What 
do you think of that ?” 

“ I think,” said Richard, “ that I’ve seen plenty 
of money going into publics, and never any com- 
ing out.” 

“ Right you are,” said a cabman drinking his 
beer; “and if you’ll run behind my cab a block 
or two, you can carry out a bag for a fare I’ll take 
to St. Pankridge, and belike you’ll get your penny.” 

Richard ran the three blocks, rang the bell, car- 
ried out two portmanteaus and held open a door, 
and got threepence. Then he cleaned a pavement 
and steps for a maid, who gave him a roll and a 
cup of hot coffee. By this time all the boys of 
the neighborhood were out with snow-scrapers and 
brooms, and, as Richard was a stranger and an in- 
terloper trespassing on their territory, they formed 
a trades union against him, and undertook to cap- 
ture his broom and give him a thrashing with it. 

But not vainly had Richard from his earliest 
recollection defended Benje and Gran’s gin-bottle 
and sixpences against all Miracle Alley. He had 


THE OTHER QUEEN. 


39 


learned to use his elbows as shields, his head as a 
battering-ram, his feet as catapults, his fists as bat- 
tle-axes. His blood was up, and, though these self- 
appointed “ counts of the Saxon shore ” came upon 
him ten to one, he successfully practiced the arts of 
self-defence, attack and escape. The conflict swelled 
along the street ; the boys abandoned bread-earning 
to fight. The skirmishers swarmed into the no- 
thoroughfare, all doing, like many older people, 
their best to make themselves and their fellows 
more miserable than needs be, and so, at last, Rich- 
ard and his broom slipped into the doorway, up 
stairs, and without grace of knocking appeared be- 
fore Gran and the Charmer. 

“Here you are!” said the dame. “I thought 
you’d run away.” 

“ He wouldn’t run without me,” said Benje. 

“I’ve took care of him all my life, long as I 
can remember,” said Richard, reproachfully. 

The children of misery do not remember so far 
back as do children of happier fortunes. While 
the well-cared-for child has flashes of pleasant 
memories lying like sunshine to light up bits of its 
life from two, three or four years of age, the chil- 
dren of sorrow have only a hazy sense of long dis- 
comforts and wants, until experiences that happened 
when they were five or six begin to stand saliently 
out on the black background of their early history. 

“ Come get your breakfast,” said the Charmer. 


40 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“I earned my breakfast,” said Richard, “and 
here are three pence to pay for Benje’s.” 

“Are you going to let us stay here?” asked 
Benje. 

That three of them were living in two small rooms 
on a stipend of less than eight dollars a week, with 
singing-lessons for the Prodigy to pay for, might 
have been a reason for the Charmer’s saying “No 
but the poor are wont to be good to the poor, and, 
besides, this sixteen-year-old damsel had been so 
much poorer that now, by contrast, she felt rich and 
able to play “ Lady Bountiful.” 

“ What can you do for a living ?” she asked. 

“ I can run round and pick up cinders and bits 
of wood, and wait on cabs, and clean walks, and---” 

“ Tut !” said the old woman ; “ those are none of 
them decent ways of making a living. You want 
to get a regular place and work steady.” 

“ So I’ve tried,” said Richard, “ but I can’t. They 
all say there’s too many boys in the world. Peter 
Auberle, a man I know, says there was once a king 
named Bluebeard who ordered all the boy-babies to 
be thrown into the Thames, and that he ought to be 
king of England now and get rid of half, so that 
the other half of us could have work and bread.” 

“ Mebby you’d been the half pitched in,” said 
the gloomy Elizabeth. 

“Are you there, Elizabeth ? Go at once and take 
your singing-lesson,” said the household sovereign. 


THE OTHER QUEEN . 


41 


“ I wish I had been pitched in,” said Elizabeth, 
incontinently bursting into tears. Elizabeth was 
always mournful, but the Charmer laughed for her- 
self and her cousin. 

“ Gran,” said the Charmer, looking at Richard, 
“ if you don’t mind having the little chap around, 
I can take this big one to the Varieties. He is large 
and strong ; I should say he might clean cages, and 
so on. The other boy they had got his leg broke 
last night : the elephant knocked him off the plat- 
form. — You Richard, are you afraid of things?” 

The hint of the other boy’s fate was not reassur- 
ing, but far be it from Richard to admit fear to this 
laughing girl, who, as Elizabeth asserted, was “ not 
afraid of anything.” 

“ ‘ ’Fraid ’ ! Ho !” said Richard the Dauntless, 
though rats and drunken men were the only wild 
beasts of which he had had experience. 

The Charmer sat down to sew new tinsel upon 
her costume, which she had worn home for that 
purpose. Gran, aided by the ready Richard, set 
the room in order, and then the old dame began 
her painful knitting, while Benje held and Richard 
wound her yarn. The sun shone in at the win- 
dows; the scene was home-like and cheery. Up 
the stairs came now and then a high note of Eliza- 
beth Allen’s much-reluctated song, accompanied by 
the shrill squeak of her master’s little fiddle. 

“ Oh how bad my hands is !” groaned Gran. 


42 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“Why do you knit, then?” said the Charmer. 
“You’re rich. — She gets five shillings pension a 
week for doing nothing, and by and by Mrs. Some- 
body is going to get her into an almshouse, and she’ll 
live like a lady all the rest of her life,” added the 
Charmer to Richard. 

“ I took care of her little gal through the small-pox 
when all the rest of the world ran and left them,” 
said Gran. “ I used to do her washin’. Mis’ Till- 
man she was. She’s come into a fortin’ since then. 
I did for the child because she was the moral image 
of Elsie here. Well, the child died a year or so 
back, and Mis’ Tillman since she got rich and I got 
crippled she gives me five shillings a week, and as 
soon as one of the women in the St. Bride’s founda- 
tion almshouses dies I’m to go there.” 

“ What’ll she do ?” asked Benje, pointing at the 
Charmer. 

“ Oh, no doubt she’ll get married,” said Gran. 

“Not I,” said the Charmer, tossing her pretty 
head. “ The girl in the cigar-box at the Varieties 
is married; she’s just my age, and her husband 
beats her. And Dollie that went to school with 
me married a man that got thirty shillings a week, 
and he lost his place, and Dollie couldn’t get but a 
pennyworth of milk a day for her baby, they were 
so poor ; and when the baby cried, she gave it just 
warm water in its bottle, and it died of weakness. 
It was such an unhappy-looking, poor, patient, lit- 


THE OTHER QUEEN. 


43 


tie baby ! The only time it had a smile and looked 
real comfortable was when it was dead. Don’t talk 
to me about getting married. If I have to starve, 
I’ll do it alone. — Come on, you Richard, to the 
Varieties. ” 

Richard, carrying the bundle with the costume 
and following the Charmer, felt as if he marched 
in a triumphal procession. It was not that the 
Charmer had gleaming golden hair fluffed in a 
bang under her coarse felt hat, or that, draped in 
hei long cloak, she skimmed along the dirty, wet 
pavements swift and graceful as a bird, so that 
people turned to look at the seemingly unconscious 
Charmer. No ; it was that for the first time in 
his life he was going to a great show — a Mam- 
moth Consolidated Varieties Music-Hall. 

If we follow the old fairy-tales, at the birth of 
the Charmer had presided two fairies. One was 
very evil, and robbed her of fortune and took away 
her parents and condemned her to poverty under 
the charge of a crippled old dame whose ultimate 
end it was to retire to an almshouse and leave the 
Charmer to shift for herself ; the other fairy anti- 
doted these ills by giving the Charmer a wonder- 
fully pretty face, a brave heart, a cheery disposition, 
a frank, innocent, taking way and a generous mind. 
The Charmer was a queen at home, and ruled Gran 
and Elizabeth ; at the Varieties she was also a queen. 
The manager knew she was one of his attractions ; 


44 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


the employes liked her for her kindly words and 
deeds ; and when she marched Richard in and de- 
manded for him a shilling a day, the place of the 
boy lately maltreated by the elephant and the risk 
of being maimed for life, Mr. Crosby did not re- 
fuse, but said, as he “ was a new boy, four shillings 
a week would do.” 

“ No, it won’t,” said the Charmer ; “ he has his 
little brother to take care of.” 

“ I’m not responsible for his little brother,” said 
the manager. 

“ If you were, you’d plan to starve him the first 
thing,” retorted the Charmer. “And if this boy 
does his work, to begin with, just as well as he would 
at the end of three months, he is worth as much 
pay to begin with. — Richard, put down my bundle 
and sweep out that big glass-and-wire cage; my 
snakes are all in their boxes now.” 

The manager laughed, and Richard began his 
work. 

There was work enough. From early morning 
until late at night Richard ran about with broom, 
brush or dust-pan. The Consolidated Varieties 
had a menagerie department, a human-curiosity 
department with dwarfs, giants, Indians, negroes, 
armless boys and double-headed girls, and an “ art 
department ” where somebody danced and some- 
body prestidigitated and somebody mouthed “ Ham- 
let” and the Prodigy and others sang. And there 


THE OTHER QUEEN. 


45 


was one department of the Varieties almost as good 
as the famous Regent's Park Zoo — the Lion Hall. 
There all down the great hall were cages of lions, 
leopards, panthers, tigers, cougars, the princes of 
the Felis family, hungry and fierce, and restrained 
only by bars and walls from devouring their trem- 
bling admirers who sat on tiers of benches over- 
against them at “ feeding-time." Richard had his 
dinner — a penny bowl of soup and a slice of bread 
— at the Varieties; about eleven at night he took 
the Charmer home, and soon after the little old 
Swiss who played for the dancing, brought home 
the discontented Prodigy. 

To Richard it was a very beautiful life. Was 
not Gran kind ? Was not little Benje warm and 
well fed? Did not they sleep well at night? Did 
not the Charmer smile? Did not he feel independ- 
ent ? In these days it never occurred to Richard 
that he or Benje could ever grow older or need a 
wider range in life, or that again a domestic cata- 
clysm could render them homeless. Children for- 
tunately live almost entirely in the present. The 
misery part is largely forgotten ; the danger to come 
is never searched for in the horizon. 

If anybody had been so officious as to tell Richard 
that the Varieties was a demoralizing place, that its 
ethical atmosphere was far from pure and that there 
were respectable people who would not enter it, he 
would have been astounded. As compared with 


46 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


Miracle Alley, it was a sanctuary of decency. Mr. 
Crosby allowed no brawling, no loud or blasphe- 
mous language, and ejected all who were in the dis- 
orderly stage of drunkenness; in Miracle Alley 
oaths and recriminations, brutality and misery, had 
raised a chorus that swelled to heaven. It was a 
part — only a small part — of that exceeding bitter 
cry of London. 

To still this cry have gone down into the seeth- 
ing mass of the royal city’s misery and shame many 
gracious agencies — the Bible Society, the missionary 
societies, the Bible women and the Bible nurses, 
many also of noble individual and independent 
workers. But, though they seem to be many, in 
comparison they are so few, and the city is so great ! 
And all the while, side by side with those who 
strive to work for God, go the missionaries of Sa- 
tan — the atheist with his literature and his halls, 
the Romanist with his ceremonies and images, the 
man with the feeble gospel of human brotherhood 
to heal slightly the hurt of the wounded soul. The 
teaching and the helping and the preaching that 
have not in them the vitality of the divine Christ 
leave the hideous misery of great London practi- 
cally unhelped. 

Let no one think that, going down among those 
from whom all hope and help and comfort in this 
world are cut off by their pitiful environment, they 
can lift them up and comfort them with a reading- 


THE OTHER QUEEN. 


47 


room, a museum, a gymnasium, a picture-gallery, a 
concert. He only, brother of their flesh and of their 
woe, an eternal God with promise of eternal life in 
his hand, is sufficient for their need. Who should 
bring him to the knowledge of the Charmer and 
the Prodigy, of Richard and Benje? 

When the second Sabbath of this millennial 
period came, the pressing need of clean shirts and 
socks reminded Richard that changes of each 
belonging to himself and Benje had been left at 
Jacob’s. This was the reason why Jacob, pounding 
at a shoe-sole, heard a cheery “ Hello, Jacob !” and 
there were the big black eyes of Richard looking 
over the half door. 


CHAPTER III. 

A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 

“ TTTH Y, boy, are you back ? Whatever became 

** of you? and where is your little brother? 
Why did you go off like that?” 

“ I went off to get a place and earn my living,” 
said Richard. “ Pm in a Mammoth Consolidated 
Varieties, and Benje is living with a lady, and 
we’re getting on splendid.” 

“ That is good news,” said Jacob, looking criti- 
cally at Richard’s strong shoulders and rugged, 
leonine face, and seeing no marks of squalor or 
hunger thereon. 

“We left some clothes here, me and Benje, and 
I thought I ought to come for them. I’m rather 
a gentleman in my feelings, and I like my shirt 
washed now and then.” 

“ The clothes,” said Jacob, “are tied up in that 
brown -paper parcel on yon shelf. Step in and 
get them.” 

“ Honor bright, Jacob, you won’t try to stop me 
nor keep me? You’ll not lay hold of me, will 
you ?” 


48 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 


49 


“ What do you mean, boy ? I don’t want you. 
I’ve no use for boys. If I’d wanted you, I’d have 
said so when the old woman died. Come in and 
get your clothes. If you’re doing well, I’m glad to 
hear it ; if you’re not, it is none of my business.” 

Thus encouraged, Richard entered into the den 
of this very reasonable and inoffensive wild beast, 
and took the bundle. 

“You might as well sit down and rest a bit,” 
said Jacob, “ and I will give you some advice. As 
I’m older than you, I can say what is for your 
good.” 

There was a chair in the shop for the accommo- 
dation of customers, but Richard seated himself 
precariously on the corner of the coal-box. Boys 
seem to have a penchant for incommodious resting- 
places. 

“ Take good care of your brother,” said Jacob, 
waxing an end. “ Be industrious : idleness is 
mother of crime. Be sober: man made in the 
image of God cannot offer his Creator a greater 
insult than to degrade himself lower than the 
brutes by drinking. Keep clean. Use not God’s 
name in vain ; and if Benje’s shoes and yours wear 
out, bring them to me, and I’ll keep them mended, 
as I always have, for nothing.” 

“ Did you do our shoes for nothing, Jacob ? That 
was pretty good of you. I supposed Gran paid 
you.” 


4 


50 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“She paid me my rent. I did the shoes for 
charity, to commend myself unto God.” 

This repetition of the word “ God ” aroused the 
curiosity of Richard, who recalled that of late he 
had not been able to answer one of Benje’s quer- 
ulous “ Whys.” He said, 

“Who’s God, Jacob?” 

“Foolish and ignorant boy, do you not know 
your Creator?” 

“ In course I don’t. Never knew I had one,” 
retorted the ward of Christianity. “ Do you know 
him, Jacob?” 

“ Surely.” 

“ Is he worth knowing, Jacob ?” 

“ Boy, he is the King of life and Centre of all 
glory.” 

“Then, Jacob,” said Richard, with conviction, 
“ I think if you knew him all this time, and never 
told me, you were blamed mean, that’s all.” 

Jacob gave a start of irritation, then, relapsing 
into his usual grave, slow manner, said, 

“ I may have erred ; I might at least have taught 
you his commandments.” 

“ Has he commandments, Jacob ? Are they any 
good?” 

“Boy, they are the sum and substance of all 
good, and in keeping of them there is great re- 
ward.” 

“ Then,” said Richard, doubling up his fist and 


A MLLTITTJDE OF COLNSELORS. 


51 


shaking it at Jacob, “ I think this is the meanest 
trick I ever heard of. Here was me and Benje, 
and you knew what was to bring great reward, and 
you never told us a word. What was mendin' of 
our shoes compared to keepin' a feller out of great 
reward ?" 

“ Perhaps I erred," said the Jew, monotonously. 

“Are there many of them commandments, Ja- 
cob ?" 

“ Ten only." 

“So? One for each of my fingers. Are they 
hard to do ?" 

“ That depends entirely upon the temper and dis- 
position of the heart." 

“ Well, my heart's all right, and so's my temper. 
If you know 'em, Jacob, suppose you tell 'em out 
now, till I see what I think of them. One and 
Richard held up a finger to keep tale. 

“The first is that we are to worship the Lord 
our God." 

“ How could I worship him, when I never heard 
of him? Say, now, Jacob." 

“ That is true. It was your misfortune, not your 
fault. It reminds me of a bit of print here," and 
he began fumbling in his peg-box — “ a bit I picked 
up on the street: ‘How could they hear without 
a preacher, and how can they preach unless they 
be sent? As it is written, How beautiful upon 
the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth 


52 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


good tidings and publisheth peace !’ I should like 
to see the rest of a writing which so well quotes 
our Scripture.” 

“And you get a reward for keeping the com- 
mandments ?” 

“Yes. It is written that if we do all that is 
ordered in the book of the law, we shall make our 
way prosperous and shall have good success.” 

“ If that is so, Jacob, why don’t you go out and 
tell the commandments to all these poor people in 
Miracle Alley, and the rest of London, so they won’t 
be so cold and ragged and hungry ?” 

“ They wouldn’t heed — ” began Jacob. 

“ Humbug !” said a voice at the half door. “ You 
know the whole thing is a fraud.” 

“ Peter Auberle,” said the Jew, “you know that 
I do not permit you to bring under my roof the 
blasphemy that there is no God.” 

“ Have any of us ever seen him ?” said Auberle. 

“ No, but we have seen his works.” 

“And do you not hold man chief of his works?” 

“ Yes ; he was made in the image of God.” 

“ Then, if man is God’s image, what can there 
be holy or worshipful in God ? Hark to that crew 
yelling and cursing in the public. Look at us all. 
Ragged, unshorn, dirty, crippled, crooked, toothless, 
blear-eyed, miserable, degraded, hateful samples we 
are of creation ! Don’t tell me of God till you can 
show me a better breed of men. If we go over 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 


53 


into May Fair, they may be cleaner and straighter 
to look upon, but they are cold and cruel and ty- 
rants, every one. Out here on the drinking-foun- 
tain they have carved ‘ God is Love/ What is the 
use of telling of the love of God if you never 
show us the love of man ? Does man care if his 
brother goes hungry, so he himself is fed ? Don’t 
the strong crowd down the weak? Over in the 
West End don’t they sing the song of the divine 
right of kings, and after them of nobles and the 
rich, and the poor man has no rights at all ? He is 
no better than the beasts : the strongest beast plun- 
ders and devours the weakest. Men are all mon- 
sters.” 

“ Are you a monster, Peter?” demanded Richard. 

“ Certainly I am. If I did what I feel like doing, 
I would take a torch and fire the city of London from 
end to end, and be as gay to see it burn as that king 
— Nebuchadnezzar or somebody — who burned the 
city of Paris and played on his fiddle.” 

“ Hush ! Don’t fill the boy’s head with wick- 
edness. He’ll learn enough of it in his own time. 
If things are so bad, no need to make them worse 
with fire, robbery and murder. You wouldn’t be 
so ready for fire and destruction if you had your 
own home and your own children, Auberle. A 
man who has given hostages to the state in family 
and hearthstone doesn’t set himself up as a uni- 
versal destroyer.” 


54 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“And why haven’t I a home or a family? Be- 
cause I have been ground down and kept down 
without a chance. I’m a sober man, and I am 
ready to work hard day and night. Many is the 
time when I’ve walked six mile a day for wage of 
one and threepence. With rent and food high and 
wage down to six shillings a week, and often no 
work at that, how is a man to have a hearthstone 
or rear a family? When I was a young man, I 
knew a girl as nice as any girl, and we two talked 
like fools about marrying. She made ’levenpence 
a day slop sewing, an’ she sewed eleven or twelve 
hours for that. So she slaved for her ’levenpence, 
until, not being made of iron — some women are 
flesh and blood, Jacob — she fell ill and died. I 
nursed her as well I could, and I buried her ; and 
I concluded that no children of mine should have 
her story and mine to live over.” 

“ Come with me, Auberle ; I’m going to give a 
reading. Come on ! If you would only listen to 
this book, it would bring you light and comfort,” 
said a new voice. 

“ Oh ! Here you are, Mr. Renfc, with your 
Bible ! And you’ll go to your poor women down 
yonder, and they’ll ask you to read out of Reve- 
lation. The worst-off ones always likes that best. 
You read it to them when they’re dyin’, and it’s 
all a glow and a glory like a pleasant song. But, 
Mr. Ren&, if you’ve got men to rescue and build 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 55 

up and turn to account, you’ve got to give ’em a 
glimpse of the brotherhood of man before you can 
persuade ’em of the fatherhood of God. When the 
worst sweaters is men as calls theirselves lights in the 
Church, them as is sweated into a ’natomy won’t 
take much stock in their religion. Penny read- 
ings won’t do what’s wanted, nor shows where 
quality comes an’ sings an’ plays a chune, or gives 
us a speech ’bout the blessing of contentment, won’t 
do it.” 

“Auberle, tell me how many infidel clubs, duly 
organized and with places of meeting, are there in 
London ? I suppose you know,” said Mr. Rene. 

“ Yes, I do. Thirty,” said Auberle, promptly. 

“And do you know how many different infidel 
publications they keep on their tables for reading ?” 

“Yes; I’ve counted,” said Auberle, proud of 
his accurate information. “ Two hundred differ- 
ent kinds, and plenty of each.” 

“And how much better morals, cleaner men, 
happier homes, better husbands, wives and parents 
and more fortunate children, are there as the result 
of this infidel propaganda?” 

“It hasn’t had half a chance,” said Auberle, 
sulkily, “we being so ground down by the rich. 
If we could hew off the head of the entire aris- 
tocracy by one blow, we’d come up.” 

“ They that take the sword shall perish by the 
sword.” 


56 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ Fd as lief perish as live — my miserable way,” 
said Auberle. 

“ Tell me, do you belong to one of these clubs ? 
Are you an infidel ?” 

“No, not out and out,” admitted Auberle. 

“And why not?” urged Mr. Rene. 

“ Here’s the living truth,” said Auberle : “ She 
that was dear to me, and my old gran, who raised 
me till I was fifteen, and my mother, who died 
when I was six, all held there was a God, and a 
happy land to go to when they were dead, and a 
life where things go better than in this world. It’s 
a pretty belief for women, sir, and helps ’em, an’ 
often keeps ’em decent when all chances lie against 
’em. Women, sir, holds more by them things than 
men. It may be they holds by their hearts, and 
not by their heads. But, sir, a man like me goes 
through the world with few to care for him, and 
I never had but them three I name, and I never 
could come out and out to deny what they held, 
nor to cut myself quite off from them as held 
me dear by saying square, ‘I am an infidel.’ It 
may be weak of me, sir, but that’s how I am. 
And when I go to your meeting, it is not for what 
you says partic’lar, but for the hymns and the sing- 
ing, and the other things that gave them poor souls 
all the good they ever got in life.” 

“Auberle,” said Mr. Ren&, “whatever you come 
for, come. You are heart-lonely ; you are poor and 


A MULTITIDE OF COUNSELORS. 


57 


oppressed. If it could once be fixed in your mind 
that the Lord thinketh upon you and undertakes 
for you, it would lighten your burden wonderfully. 
You want to hear of brotherhood — sympathizing 
human brotherhood that knows how you feel, hav- 
ing felt it. But you want more than an earthly 
brother, who may misunderstand or forget or be 
powerless to help. You want a God.” 

“ No, I don’t,” said Auberle, bluntly. “ God is 
too far off, and too high up, and too full of glory, 
and too infinite — if there is any God — to come into 
the feelings of such as me.” 

“The God I wish to show you is human and 
divine — a man sitting on the eternal throne of 
heaven ; a God who wore our flesh and blood in 
poverty and pain, who hungered, thirsted and was 
weary, who wept and was despised and wounded 
and rejected ; a man who was a carpenter — a poor 
and humble woman’s son — and yet who had made 
all things by the word of his power ; who even in 
his days on earth upheld the universe by his provi- 
dence ; who wears our nature still, being ascended 
into the heavens, and who matches our sorrows out 
of his own memories.” 

“I told you,” said Auberle, “the thing you 
preach — the story of the city of God and of the 
Nazarene — is so beautiful that it takes hold of 
these poor lonesome ones. But, Mr. Ben&, if it 
was true — if it is true — why hasn’t it done more 


58 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


for such as me ? Why hasn’t it helped up all these 
wretches around us? Why don’t those who say 
they believe it live it? You can see, sir, if such 
a story was lived before us and among us as well 
as talked in pulpits, it would take hold of us ; it 
would stop this misery. If the government be- 
lieved it, would the government license gin-palaces 
and have unjust laws? If the churches believed 
it, would they keep shy of us East-Enders as if 
we was lepers? If the men and women believed 
it, would they hold fast their money and let us 
starve while calling Christ ‘ brother’?” 

The next sentence of Auberle was unheard, for 
he walked off with the slender, quiet, fair-faced 
Mr. Rene, who had taken it as his life-work to 
bring the knowledge of the gospel to Miracle Alley 
and its precincts. 

“ ’Bout them commandments, Jacob ?” said Rich- 
ard, who had the tenacity of a bull-dog. 

“ There’s no use telling them to you. I found a 
bit of print yesterday that said, ‘ For whosoever 
shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one 
point, he is guilty of all ;’ and that is true. As it 
is certain that you would not keep the Sabbath, it 
is no good to tell you the law about killing, steal- 
ing, swearing, and so on.” 

“ Do you mean keep your Sabbath as you do ?” 

“ Yes, surely.” 

“ You’d better believe I won’t. The Varieties is 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 


59 


open then, and I have a livin’ to earn for me and 
Benje.” 

“ Go your way to ruin,” quoth Jacob, calmly. 

“ I can get along without your ten command- 
ments, and — and I’ll go my way till — •” A gleam 
broke over his face; for the first time ambition 
flamed up within him, and by its light he saw wide 
horizons of hope. “ Until I keep a wild-beast show, 
Jacob.” 

“ Very good,” said Jacob. “Come and see me 
again, and bring Benje. I’m your friend as long 
as you do well.” 

“ Yes. Thank you, Jacob. Of course you are. 
All the folks are. It’s the way with folks. But I 
often wonders where’s there one to be a friend to 
them as does ill — where’s there one to help a feller 
when he’s down, which is the time he’s most need- 
ing friends and help. Did you ever hear of such 
a one, Jacob ? I never did. Such a one would be 
a most proper kind of friend to tie to, but where 
is such? That’s what I want to know.” 

Being merely a benighted heathen product of a 
highly Christianized country, his question was one 
which seemed to him unanswerable. For him the 
ages had brought forth no fruit of peace ; for him 
no one had ever lived who received sinners. 

But the inquiry aroused in Jacob’s mind the mem- 
ory of a vanished hope : 

“ There has never been such a one as you ask 


60 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


for, boy, and I doubt if there ever will be. This 
world is given over to the strong. Men praise you 
if you do well by yourself ; but if you fall, they 
tramp over you. The ancient prophets foretold of 
One who was to come in a righteous kingdom to 
judge the poor of the people and save the children 
of the needy. That One was to have such abun- 
dance of power and glory that he would know how 
to help the needy in his distress and raise up all 
who fall. Very likely it was a dream, and our 
prophets were poets singing a song that has de- 
ceived our hearts. When I was your age, I used 
to look toward the skies in the east, hoping for 
the Glory of Israel to break forth like the sun. 
If he ever came, it was in some fashion when we 
did not know him ; and he has gone, and left no 
trace.” 

“ Perhaps he’ll come back, wherever he is, Jacob?” 

“ No, my boy — no. I have given up all hope. 
I shall never see him, and you will never see him. 
No doubt the prophets meant other than they sang. 
There is nothing for you, Richard, in this world, 
but to be strong ; for the strong man succeeds, while 
the weak man goes to the wall.” 

Richard held out his arm, and, opening and shut- 
ting his large stout hand, exercised muscles of which 
he did not then know the name. 

“ Since there is no one to help me, I’ll help my- 
self,” he said. “ You may just make up your mind, 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 


61 


Jacob, I’m not going to the wall for anybody. As 
long as I’ve got fists and elbows, Pm going to fight 
out a way for me and Benje.” 

Away went Bichard with his bundle. 

At the end of Miracle Alley there was Betty with 
a loaf. 

“ Heigho, Betty ! Is your father well ?” cried 
Bichard. 

“ He’s dead,” said Betty. “ I earned this loaf. 
I’m a step-girl now : I clean steps. A lady took 
Mary Brewer into school to learn to be a servant, 
and I clean all the steps Mary had. I earn four- 
or fivepence a day.” 

“ I live in a splendid house,” bragged Bichard, 
“and there are two girls there, and they wash their 
faces and comb their heads and frill their bangs and 
mend the tears in their frocks. They are mighty 
nice girls, Betty. I think you might look rather 
nice if you did as much as they do. How old are 
you, Betty?” 

“ I’m thirteen.” 

“ You’re little for your age,” said the burly Bich- 
ard. 

“ Mam says I’d grow if I had more to eat,” said 
Betty. 

“ It won’t cost you anything to wash your face,” 
said the bluff Bichard, and went his way, having 
sown the seed of vanity and ambition in the unlucky 
Betty. She would mend her frock and frill her bangs. 


62 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ Where did you get these clothes?” asked the 
grandmother when Richard handed her a parcel, 
saying, “ Here’s things for me and Benje.” 

“ I remembered I’d left them where we used to 
live with Gran, so I went and asked for them,” said 
Richard. 

The old woman looked curiously at him through 
her spectacles : 

“ Who kept them for you ?” 

“ Jacob.” 

“And they are yours — surely yours? It is just 
as you say ?” 

“Yes,” said Richard, indifferently. He was 
looking at the Charmer. 

The Charmer lay on the lounge. Her hands 
were locked under her curly yellow head; her 
elbows were sticking out like two wings ; one foot 
— and the Charmer had a very pretty foot — drooped 
to the floor. There was marvelous grace in the 
round, flexible waist, the drooping foot, the chest 
expanded by the uplifted arms. Richard did not 
know that this attitude was grace, nor that the 
laughing lips, the deep-blue eyes, the brilliant com- 
plexion, of the Charmer were beauty ; but he looked 
at her with the same feelings that woke when he 
saw bright pictures gleaming in golden frames or 
the flowers heaped in the windows of the florist. 

The Charmer laughed at him : 

“What are you staring at me for, Richard? 


A MULTITUDE OF COVNSELORS. 


63 


Attend to Grannie. — Grannie, why are you so sus- 
picious ? What a world this is ! Here it is so 
much easier to do ill than well, it is so common to 
be wicked, that we take it for granted that people 
are always wicked. The first thing is to suspect 
them of evil. Why don’t we suspect them of 
good? You have lived so long, Grannie, that the 
wickedness of this world is always the first thing be- 
fore your mind. Now, I have lived a shorter time. 
I’m good and I mean to be good, and I think every 
one else is good. I don’t think Richard stole those 
duds ; you do.” 

“ Thinks I stole ’em !” cried Richard, a flame 
leaping over his rugged, strong face. “ Thinks I 
stole ! I won’t stay here another minute. — Come 
on, Benje !” and, leaving on Gran’s lap the cause 
of contention, he seized Benje and dragged him 
into the hall. 

Where Richard was going he did not know ; all 
London was before him where to choose. It has 
been before many others, and of some their final 
choice has been — the Thames ! 

Out in the hallway, high and sweet, came to 
Richard and Benje the voice of Elizabeth taking 
her lesson : 

“In holiday-gown and my new-fangled hat!” 

But something was wrong with the strain. Eliza- 
beth stopped. The bow lingered on the string, and 


64 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


the voice of the little Swiss master quavered in ex- 
ample : 

“ ‘ Fa-a-an-an-gledd. , Pile on ze agony, Eleez- 
eebeth.” 

“ I want to go hear Elizabeth sing,” whined Benje. 

Why not ? It was on their way out — -just at the 
foot of the stairs, indeed. Standing on the lowest 
step, they looked over a half door into a mite of 
a shop. At a pair of trestles in the middle of the 
floor a man chiseled and planed the lid of a little 
coffin. He whistled a tune — not loud, but gay, for 
he was earning his bread, and his tune kept uncon- 
scious time to the tap of his wife’s little hammer as 
she covered with coarse black cloth and staring 
round tin spangles the box of this same little coffin. 
On the floor of the shop two children of two or 
three years of age played gayly, making dollies of 
the shavings chipped by the father and the rags 
dropped by the mother. The woman wore a gay 
chintz short gown, a red flannel petticoat ; on her 
head was a blue gingham kerchief; the children 
were in red and yellow flannel. This interior was 
a picture of vivid, cheery, unthinking life triumph- 
ing in the midst of death and fed by it. On a 
long unpainted box in the corner sat the little Swiss 
master, his cheek against his violin, his bow uplift- 
ed. Before him stood Elizabeth. The sun was 
setting, and through the westward street and be- 
tween the houses fell a golden ray, and illuminated 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 


65 


the little shop and made resplendent the yellow hair 
of the singing Elizabeth. 

“ Seeng, my Eleezeebeth, seeng !” urged the Swiss. 
“ Do not let the tears come, my child. Earn your 
bread courageously, Eleezeebeth — cour-a-gee-ously. 
Do not ask why you have no parents to take care 
of you. Do I ask why the emperor is the emperor 
and I am but the wornout old master who by the 
goodness of my niece am let sleep here in this large 
coffin every night, and when I can no more play at 
the Varieties must go to the workhouse?” 

“No, uncle; you shall not,” said the woman, 
taking a few dozen tin spangles from her mouth, 
that she might speak distinctly. 

“ But I would not live on you to rob your chil- 
dren.” 

“ Never fear,” said the man, tossing a long curly 
shaving to his child ; “ mine is a trade that always 
thrives. People die every day ; I am busy even on 
Sunday.” 

“ Seeng, Eleezeebeth, seeng ! Bring out ‘ I’m too 
young to wed/ so as to make your audee-ence smile.” 

The lesson presently finished, and Bichard recalled 
his purpose of departure. 

“ Good-bye,” said Bichard. “ I am going away. 
Your grandmother thinks I steal ; she will not want 
a thief in her house. Good-bye.” 

But Elizabeth seized him by the arm and began 
to call aloud, 

5 


66 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ Grannie, Grannie ! come here ! What do you 
mean saying bad things to Richard ? I won’t sing 
another note if you send them away !” 

The old woman appeared in the doorway. 

“ Come, my boy ! I think no ill of you. Come 
in. I’ve been watching the window to call you 
back. Come in, all of you.” 

“ Come in !” cried the Charmer. “ I’ve made 
toast for tea — toast and sausages. Come in ! — 
Richard, why are you so touchy? No one meant 
harm to you.” 

“ It’s enough to make a man mad,” said Richard-. 
“ I went to see old Jacob, and he says I’ll never 
come to any good if I don’t keep his Sabbath ; he’s 
a Jew. Now, could I make my living and lie off 
work all day Saturday? I told him I couldn’t; it 
would be too inconvenient. — What Sabbath do you 
keep ?” 

“ Not much of any, I guess,” said the Charmer. 
“ The show is shut, and we rest.” 

“ Why don’t we keep Sunday ?” asked Elizabeth. 

“ Because, as Richard says, it’s too inconvenient,” 
laughed the Charmer, buttering her toast. 

“ Because we’re all turned heathen together,” said 
the old woman; “and I make no doubt it is just as 
evil to take away the Lord’s Sabbath as to steal any- 
thing we could lay our hands on, only the law takes 
no notice.” 

Richard’s natural shrewdness led him to obliterate 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 


67 


himself as far as possible when this family circle were 
gathered together. He realized that the fire was 
small, that the accommodations were narrow and that 
he and Benje were aliens present on sufferance. There 
was a box at one corner of the hearth, on which Rich- 
ard seated himself with Benje between his knees. 
Thus situated, he could autocratically silence Ben- 
je’s “ Whys ” if they became too importunate. 

Elizabeth always drew her chair next the broth- 
ers. Sometimes she brooded over her disadvan- 
tages, sometimes she talked with the boys, and she 
and Benje sympathized, the one with the other, 
over mutual grievances : “ Why were they not 
born in the country, where birds sang and flowers 
bloomed and sun shone ? Why did they not have 
fathers and mothers to care for them ?” 

“ Why can’t we ever get out of London ?” said 
Elizabeth. “Once I knew a girl that had been 
sick, and the Bible nurse — ■” 

“ What’s a Bible nurse ?” demanded Benje. 

“ She’s a nurse that goes round among the sick 
poor folks, and carries a bag with beef-tea and band- 
ages and crackers in it, and a book. She never 
charges a penny, and speaks kind and takes care of 
the poor people as if they were rich folks.” 

“ I never see her in Miracle Alley,” said Benje. 

“ Of course not ! There’s not near enough nurses 
to go round such a big place as London.” 

“ Why ain’t there enough ?” complained Benje. 


68 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ Because there isn’t money enough for so many 
nurses and bags and beef-tea, and all that.” 

“ Why ain’t there money enough?” whined 
Benje. 

“ Because folks — rich folks — won’t give it.” 

“ Why won’t they give it, if they’ve got it ?” in- 
sisted the insatiable Benje. 

“ Hush up, Benje, with your ‘ Whys,’ ” said Rich- 
ard. 

“ It’s because they don’t care; that’s why. — 
What about that girl, Elizabeth?” for, a theme 
once broached, Richard never gave it up until he 
had exhausted it. 

“ The Bible nurse sent the girl down to the sea- 
side for two weeks — two whole weeks. She told 
me it was splendid. The sun shone, and the waves 
— all white — ran up on the sand, and she found 
little shells.” 

“ I know,” said Richard; “I’ve been. I took 
Benje. He was sick when he was four years old ; 
he could hardly hold up his head, and he wouldn’t 
eat, and he got so thin his bones stuck out. I car- 
ried him every day to the infirmary doctor, and he 
said all he needed was to get out of Miracle Alley 
for a while. I knew there was boats ran down the 
river and to Ramsgate every day — there was a man 
I got acquainted with that does nigger minstrel, and 
he told me about it — so I earned a shilling, and 
I made Gran give me two shillings, and I went on 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 


69 


the boat when the man I knew went. Some people 
on the boat that had dinner-baskets with ’em gave 
me and Benje lots of dinner. We went to Broad- 
stairs, and the man took us up the beach to where 
the fishermen live, and one of them said we might 
sleep in his boat, or under his shed when the boat 
wasn’t in. Benje was so weak when we went down 
I had to carry him. I stayed three weeks. I left 
Benje lying on the sand while I ran around and 
earned pennies. Benje got fatter and stronger every 
day, and he’s never been sick since. You see, when 
I make up my mind to do a thing, I do it. I’m 
bound to.” 

“ Then I’d make up my mind to do something 
worth while,” said Elizabeth. 

“ What is worth while ?” asked Bichard. 

“ That going to the sea was all right aud worth 
while then,” said Elizabeth ; “ but if I were you, 
I’d make up my mind to be something better than 
poor and hungry all my life.” 

Here the Charmer, sitting by the lamp, began to 
read. The Charmer was fond of reading. She 
was considered brilliantly educated : she had been 
to “ board school ” until she was twelve years old. 
She could read, write and cipher, and she knew a 
little about geography. She gave occasional assist- 
ance to the keeper of a penny circulating library, 
and as a recompense got certain grimy and dog’s- 
eared books to read on Sunday. The Charmer was 


70 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


not particular ; she read anything that came to her 
in covers. Sometimes, by great good luck, she got 
what was worth reading, and she read aloud for the 
improvement of Gran and Elizabeth. 

Now the Charmer read : 

“‘My brother, you may be poor, you may be 
even begging your bread, but does no clear beam 
of energy, of indomitable will, vibrate within thee ? 
Have you no inspiration ? Does no voice bid thee 
arise and lift up others with thyself? Even if 
your feet be bare upon the pavements, before them 
open two paths : one leads to poverty and shame, 
one to self-dependence and honor. What matter 
if no man help thee ? Lift up thy cry, “ My 
Father in heaven, help me ! ” and go forward/ Oh 
my goodness !” said the Charmer,, dropping her 
book ; “ I forgot ! I promised to go and give 
Letty a dancing-lesson. If I can get her to do 
three dances well, she can get a place at the Varie- 
ties, and come Christmas she can get into the panto- 
mime, and Benje shall get into the pantomime too.” 

“ She’ll wish she hadn’t gone into the Varieties 
to be cuffed about,” said Elizabeth. “ Mrs. Crosby 
is so ugly !” 

“ It is much better than up at four — or, maybe, 
three — to go for flowers to Covent Garden market, 
and out all day in all weathers, so tired you can 
hardly drag, and have half your stock die on your 
hands, and go hungry for a week to make it up. 


A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELORS. 


71 


Elizabeth, if yon were a flower-girl, you would 
have something to fret over.” 

The Charmer was putting on her cloak to go 
and give her dancing-lesson. No doubt it was in 
the sight of Heaven just as fair a charity as cer- 
tain that have a higher sound. 

The coffin-maker’s wife put her head in at the 
door : 

“ Elsie, will you go with me to the green-gro- 
cer’s in Handel street? I’m carrying their baby’s 
coffin there, and they have some flowers to put in 
it ; and you have such taste, Elsie, I want you to 
put the baby in the eoffin and fix its dress and the 
flowers.” 

“All right,” said the smiling Charmer; “I’ll 
stop with you as I go to give my dancing-lesson.” 

“I’m glad one more is dead,” cried Elizabeth, 
gloomily. 

“ Oh fie, Elizabeth ! The green-grocer could 
take care of the baby,” said Gran. 

“ But if he died as my father did, then the baby 
must be knocked about as Elsie and I are.” 

“ Well, hit back, as I do,” said the cheery Charm- 
er, going forth with smiles to wait on life and death. 

Is it not possible that this girl, whose lot was such 
that she had nothing to give but a touch of a con- 
soling hand to a mourning mother, and a dancing- 
lesson that might help a hungry girl to fill her 
mouth and pay for a shelter — keep her, perhaps, 


72 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


from steps that take hold on death — was doing 
work more pleasing to God than some of the bet- 
ter-instructed sisters? There are some who think 
they owe their Lord absolutely nothing but to sit 
in his house reverently of a Sabbath, to join in the 
hymn as the organ peals, and to drop a coin for 
contribution when the baskets go round. 

And yet these are they who admit that they are 
bought with a price, and that their Lord gave him- 
self for them. The Charmer did not know that 
she owed the Lord anything ; in fact, she had heard 
of him so little that for her he was not. The city 
was full of churches, into which she never went; 
it was fudl of Bibles, which she never read ; it was 
full of sermons, which she never heard. Who was 
to blame for all this? Some one was terribly to 
blame. But we think it was not Elsie. If Benje 
had known of this state of things, he might have 
asked, “Why don’t the good ones come to find us 
and tell us? Why , if Christ left his poor with 
them, do they not remember the poor? Why , if 
in the sick, the poor, the naked, the hungry, the 
imprisoned, he is ministered unto, is service not 
more of a delight? Why , if God abhors an idler, 
are we so idle? Why y if we are Christians, are 
we so unlike Christ ?” 

Why, O Benje, why, why, why ? 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB . 

T HE tenacious mind of Richard had seized hold 
of what the Charmer had read. He remem- 
bered what he had said to Jacob about getting on 
in the world and rising even to the eminent posi- 
tion of keeper of a wild-beast show. Also had not 
Elizabeth just bidden him to do something worth 
while ? He felt strong — strong as a giant — to grap- 
ple with all the wrongs which Auberle had enume- 
rated, and to vanquish them. 

“ Elizabeth,” he said, “ I have made up my mind. 
I can do something — something great — for me and 
Benje. Just as I always had a fire for us, and a 
bed, because I would have it, and w r orked for it 
steady ; just as I took Benje to the seaside, because 
I was bound to do it, — so Pll do something fine for 
me and Benje. What shall I do, Elizabeth? This 
afternoon, when Jacob was jibing me, I told him 
I meant to go on till I kept a wild-beast show. 
Would you, Elizabeth? Would you do that?” 

“ No, I would not,” said Elizabeth, very decid- 
edly. “ Mr. Crosby isn’t a gentleman ; he’s a — 

73 


74 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


brute, I call him. If I were you, Fd set out to be 
a gentleman while I was about it. Haven’t you 
ever been into Russel Square and Bloomsbury, and 
seen the fine houses and the carriages ?” 

“Yes, once,” said Richard. 

Rag Fair does not often intrude into the sacred 
precincts of May Fair. The children of the East 
End stray now and then into the borderland of 
Bloomsbury as if they went into a far country. 

“ Then that’s what you ought to aim for,” said 
Elizabeth. “ If I was a boy, and not a girl — for 
girls can’t do anything — that’s what I’d aim for. 
I’d like to live in a grand house, and ride in a car- 
riage, and have a coachman with silver buttons, and 
a footman ; only I would not allow my coachman to 
hit at poor children with his whip if they came 
near the carriage. Don’t poor children have it 
bad enough, being cold and hungry and no bed, 
and nothing, that everybody hits at them ?” 

“Well, Elizabeth,” said Richard, “ when I get the 
grand house and carriage, and everything, you and 
the Charmer and Gran, shall come and live with me ; 
I can as easy take care of you all as of Benje. The 
thing, Elizabeth, is how to get there. Keep shop?” 

“ No,” said Elizabeth. “ It takes money to start 
a shop ; you have no money. You must start on 
something you have. Perhaps you have — brains, 
Richard ?” 

“ Yes,” said Richard, doubtfully; “every one has. 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB. 


75 


I see them knocked out of a man once. He fell 
from a roof ; and when his brains was out, hfe was 
dead. If you mean I’ve got more think in me 
than other folks, I b’lieve I have.” 

“That’s what I mean. Now, with their braius 
people got to be bishops and lawyers. I’ve heard 
of bishops, but I never saw one but in a picture in 
a book ; and they live in a palace and wear white 
frocks and long stockings and buckles. But law- 
yers are great gentlemen, Richard ; they live in 
the Temple and Gray’s Inn, and run round with a 
big silk gown and white curly wig and a boy car- 
rying a blue bag for ’em. When the bag isn’t very 
heavy, they carry it themselves. They have only 
to say to the bobbies , 4 Put this man in prison,’ ‘ Put 
that man in prison — ’ ” 

“I’d say, ‘Let ’em all out of prison,”’ quoth 
Richard. 

“And they get piles of money and ride in 
coaches.” 

“ Then I’ll be a lawyer,” said Richard, firmly. 

“But then there are doctors,” said Elizabeth. 
“ The doctors get to be very great. Even the queen 
has to do what her doctor says to her ; I read it in 
a paper. I have seen doctors living in splendid 
houses and riding in coaches. When rich folks 
are sick, they’ll give a doctor a hundred pounds 
to cure ’em ; and if a doctor only looks at a per- 
son’s tongue, he gets a bright gold sovereign for it. 


76 BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 

A doctor always wears a fine coat and a tall silk 
hat and yellow kid gloves and a shirt. Oh, such 
a shirt ! white as white and glossy ! Oh !” 

Richard caught the enthusiasm of Elizabeth for 
the medical profession. 

“ I know, I know !” he cried. “ I took Benje to 
the infirmary doctor, and once I went to see the 
minstrel-man in the hospital and saw the doctor ; 
and I took some shoes once up to Birdcage Walk, 
where a doctor was to see a man. Oh, I remem- 
ber ! He puts one hand out on your wrist. The 
pulse? Yes, the pulse. He holds out his other 
hand to the man’s other hand, and just fills his 
pocket with money. Why, of course ! The doc- 
tor can save life, and the man will give all the 
money he has to get his life saved. What good 
would the money do him if he was dead, you 
know ?” 

Verily, Richard, did not Satan say long ago, 
“ Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he 
give for his life”? But Richard did not know 
what authority he was quoting. 

“And what’s the good of the life, without any 
money?” asked Elizabeth, mournfully. 

“ I would not take quite all,” said Richard : “ I 
would leave them a few shillings ; and dear little 
boys like Benje — I would feel their pulse for noth- 
ing and give their brothers five bob to take ’em to 
the sea. Yes, yes, Elizabeth ! I’ll be a doctor. 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB. 77 

I’ll be a gentleman as fine as any on Holborn Via- 
duct : I’ll wear a coat with a velvet collar, and a 
silk hat half a yard high, and I will wear those 
kind of boots that shine like black glass, and I’ll 
have those things called gloves — yellow, if you say 
so, Elizabeth — and a cane with a big gold top like 
an apple, and I’ll carry it — so — between my two 
hands, with the top in my mouth and Richard 
seized the poker to demonstrate. “ I won’t wear 
a shirt that don’t shine, and — ” 

“But the clothes don’t make the doctor, nor 
even the gentleman,” said Elizabeth. “ How will 
you get the money?” 

“Oh, I know; I know how to do it. You take 
hold of a sick person’s hand, and you look at the 
tongue, and you tell ’em in which bone of their 
body the trouble is. You say to the man, ‘ You 
will be dead in ten minutes’ — and you look at 
your watch, Elizabeth — ( unless I save you,’ and 
you write on a paper — or tell them, if you can’t 
write — 1 Get, say, some flies cooked in oil, or some 
weeds, or grass picked by a witch when the moon 
is full, made in tea.” 

“ What nonsense, boy ! Are you crazy ?” 

“I heard old women telling Gran such things 
would cure anything,” said Richard. “ But, how- 
ever I did it, I’d cure them, and I’d get my 
money ; and I have heard of doctors that could 
take out a blind eye and put in another that could 


78 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


see. I shall be such a famous doctor the queen and 
the prince of Wales will send for me when they are 
sick, and they shall hear of me even in the country 
of China.” 

“ That is right,” said Elizabeth. “ But to be a 
doctor you must study; you must learn much. 
You cannot be a doctor and not know how to 
write ; you must learn to read and to write. When 
you know how to read, you can learn all that is in 
books. And there will be great schools to go to ; 
how you will pay your way I can’t see. But you 
must learn to read first. Did you say you are 
twelve? You should begin at once. The Charmer 
and I could teach you; only we never have any 
time, and we are so tired, and perhaps we do not 
know how very well. She read in a book one night 
that some people had such a way of teaching that 
if you put your mind to it in a few weeks you 
could learn what other persons would take years 
to tell you. I was in board school three years, 
and I learned such a little !” 

“ Oh, I must learn everything — all there is to 
learn-r-before three years. I must learn it all in 
three months. I could learn to read in a week; 
to write, in another week. I believe I could make 
as good scratches now as any one, if I had a pen. 
I’ve seen Jacob do it. He puts his head down 
near the paper, and runs out his tongue, and shuts 
one eye, and makes long crooked marks. After I 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB. 


79 


learn how to do that, I suppose I could learn all 
the rest in two or three months.” 

“I’m afraid not; our board schoolmaster had 
been years in school. But first of all you must 
learn to read.” 

“ Why can’t I learn to read ?” interposed the 
voice of Benje, low, sweet and complaining as 
that of a young turkey. “ Why can’t I be a gen- 
tleman, Bichard?” 

“ So you can,” said Bichard, “ and you shall 
begin right away. — Elizabeth, I shall send Benje 
to board school ; Fll take him to-morrow. It is 
twopence a week to pay; I’ll take that out of my 
six shillings, and I’ll buy him a book and a slate. — 
You’ll work like a man, Benje? You know when 
you learn to read all the books in the world you’ll 
soon be a gentleman.” 

Benje settled himself back against Bichard with 
a satisfied air, and, reaching up with both hands, 
took firm hold of Bichard’s ears. But Bichard’s 
ears lay close to his head, and this frequent grasp 
of Benje had never been able to make them flare 
out like jug-handles. 

“And what will you do, Bichard?” asked Eliza- 
beth. 

“I know,” said Bichard. “Peter Auberle can 
read and write; Jacob says Peter is very learned 
and knows more than all the men of Miracle Alley. 
I must get two hours a day to go to Peter and learn. 


80 


BAG FATE AND MAY FAIR. 


Do you suppose Mr. Crosby will give me two hours 
a day ?” 

“ No ; of course he won’t.” 

“ Then I’ll make him,” said Richard. 

“ Perhaps Elsie can make him,” said Elizabeth. 

But when Richard preferred his request for two 
hours’ daily leave, it was as if he had asked the half 
of the manager’s kingdom. Two hours ! Mr. 
Crosby felt sure that anarchy and communism had 
now come into England to stay, when boys became 
so assuming and exorbitant. 

Yet this boy worked fifteen hours daily — from 
seven in the morning until ten at night — for a shil- 
ling, a little less than one and two-thirds cents an 
hour. This labor, moreover, was in the hot, viti- 
ated air of a show-place, particularly among the 
foul odors of the wild-beast cages. 

But Richard had by this time formulated his 
opinions, and could speak less wildly than when 
he discussed medical practice with Elizabeth. He 
had also been to consult with Peter Auberle. 

“ Sir,” he said to Mr. Crosby, “ I must learn to 
read. You complain of the paupers and the poor- 
rate, but there are so many paupers because we peo- 
ple are not educated and cannot read and write. We 
act like beasts when we live without knowing more 
than beasts. I want to learn something, sir, so that 
there shall be one less beast in England, and one 
more man. I come here at seven in the morning 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB. 


81 


and stay until ten at night, and how can I have 
time to learn unless you give it to me? I’d like 
from one to three, sir, when the performances are 
not on.” 

“ Every boy works as many hours as you do,” 
said Mr. Crosby. “The butchers’ boys have the 
same hours, and till twelve Saturday night; the 
bakers’ boys, the dairy-boys, have longer hours : 
they begin at five in the morning.” 

“ I don’t mind the work,” said Richard ; “ I’d 
as leave come at five, if you say so. If there were 
more hours in the day, so I could learn reading in 
two of them, it would be all right.” 

“You’d better let him go,” said the Charmer; 
“ he does more for his pay than any boy you ever 
had. I have made up my mind that Richard must 
have his chance ; he has the making of somebody 
in him. He and Elizabeth and I could all get into 
the Islington theatre for the pantomime season for 
more than you pay us, and have three less hours a 
day.” 

“But not steady work year in and out,” said 
Mr. Crosby. “However, Elsie, if you’ll agree 
that none of you will leave me for a year, staying 
a t the same pay as now, the boy may have his two 
hours a day, if it is to be spent in learning reading 
and not in fooling around gin-palaces or playing 
pitch-and-toss.” 

The Charmer, who was easily satisfied, agreed to 
6 


82 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


Mr. Crosby’s condition : they would all stay for a 
year at the same price. 

Behold, now, Richard, with threepence invested 
in pen, ink and paper, and threepence in a second- 
hand reader and speller ! At one — no, truly, at 
ten minutes before one, taking part of the time allot- 
ted him for his dinner — off goes Richard with a rush 
for his tutor. Out of Shoreditch, into Brick Lane, 
into a court and a mews — this was Bethnal Green — 
Richard was in the very centre of the ancient silk- 
weavers’ colony. Here, driven out of France by 
the dragonnades of Louis the Magnificent, came 
some of the sixty thousand Huguenots who settled 
in London in 1684. In those days half the silk- 
and velvet-weavers of Lyons fled for conscience’ 
sake, and many of them set up their looms in Beth- 
nal Green. As Richard ran on, looking up to find 
Peter Auberle’s attic, he saw the wide casement- 
window, built so that, the loom fitting into the 
window, the light fell on the whole web. 

As one notes now the squalor, the ignorance, the 
vice, the godlessness in general, of Bethnal Green 
way, it is hard to realize that this quarter was once 
filled with a fugitive host exiled for dear love of 
the word of God ; that here once the Bible lay in 
the loom-corner; that in these rooms altars were 
raised to no unknown God ; that here mothers told 
their children of their kin who had been martyred 
for the testimony of Jesus Christ. 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB . 


83 


Upon the roof, here and there, were little wood- 
en erections — “ pigeon-dormers ;” for once Bethnal 
Green was the centre of the pigeon-fanciers’ trade, 
as it was of silk-weaving. When the nineteenth 
century opened, the hum of the weavers at work 
filled the air and the flights of pigeons often dark- 
ened the day ; now pigeons and weavers are nearly 
all gone. The pigeon-trade is “ cruel poor,” and 
the factories have driven the hand-looms out of 
the field. 

The looms are empty ; the few weavers left are 
old and gray. Their rooms are bare and desolate. 
In the land of their adoption the last descendants 
of some of the Huguenots have lost the ancient 
faith with the ancient trade and cheerful spirits. 
Auberle, sitting despondent by a loom that brought 
him six or seven shillings a week, was Auberle the 
almost infidel and anarchist; and Auberle was the 
only teacher to be found for Richard. 

A ray of light came into the weaver’s attic with 
the boy ; he gaVe him a place for book and paper 
at the empty loom. With the boy came to the man 
occupation, interest; once more he was of use to 
some one. He took from a shelf a few old books. 

“You shall learn all these, Richard, to spite 
them. They don’t mean you to learn, my boy. In 
France and Germany they give you education free ; 
they make you go to school whether or no. In 
America, I am told, they send you to school, and 


84 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


gives you all your books, and puts over you the 
best teachers, and gives sueli schoolrooms and 
school-furniture, boards, books, globes, maps, all 
fit for the richest; and the rich ones go side and 
side with the poor and keeps the thing up. But 
here in England, my lad, it is no matter whether 
you learn your A, B, C or not. You may pay 
your twopence a week ; you may buy your books. 
You are not expected to learn if you go, and you’re 
not given much chance to go. Your master is 
allowed to work you twelve, fifteen or eighteen 
hours a day, and how much of you will be left 
for learning after that?” 

“ Yes, yes, Auberle !” said Richard, impatiently. 
“ But teach me something, quick ! I want to learn 
all there is in three or four weeks. Hurry up ! 
What’s first?” 

“The alphabet — twenty-six letters — and then 
how to put the letters together. After that you 
learns all you can ; and the more you learns, the 
more you find out what you don’t know. Look 
ye, my son : there’s m and there’s a and there’s 
n. Now tackle it. Whenever you sees them three 
together, man it means. M, a, n, ‘ man.’ Now, 
them is print. Here, on this paper, I sets them 
in handwriting — m, a , n, ‘man.’ Now copy that 
all down that column, looking at mine to write, 
and at the book to keep the print in your idee. 
Three legs m stands on, like a cripple with a crutch ; 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB. 


85 


two legs n stands on. like a man ; and m , a , n , 
spells ‘ man.’ ” 

Thus was Richard initiated by Auberle into the 
kingdom of knowledge. Full of zeal and ambi- 
tion and self-reliance, greedy to learn, receiving 
as a golden coin each item of information given, 
the boy soon learned that all of the longest and 
busiest life would suffice only to gather up a very 
little of the lore of the universe. 

The progress of Richard, as compared to the 
progress of most boys, was as the strides of the 
famous seven-league boots to the creeping of a 
snail. 

If Fate had cast Auberle in other circumstances, 
he might have made one of the rarest of teachers. 
He knew how to encourage, to inspire, to econo- 
mize the labor of his pupil. There was no droning 
through inane sentences in a reading-book for Au- 
berle. 

As soon as Richard could read — and in a month 
he read fairly well — he was set to read in his his- 
tory or geography, and his writing-lesson was not 
a mere string of words, but was the statement of 
facts : “ The earth is round like a ball “ There 
are five zones — one torrid, two temperate, two 
frigid. ‘ Frigid’ means ( very cold ‘ torrid’ means 
* very hot f ” and so on. 

All Sabbath afternoon Richard spent with Au- 
berle at study. In the morning he studied, reading 


86 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


to the Charmer or to Elizabeth. Sometimes he took 
Benje with him in the afternoon, and Benje sat on 
the loom and watched the last few pigeons of Beth- 
nal Green wheeling over the streets where cold and 
ragged and dirty children fought and played. Un- 
til dark the insatiable Richard worked at his books, 
then back to Gran’s, and after supper Richard and 
Elizabeth talked of that large future and the grand- 
eur Richard would reach by learning. 

u I have not said it to Auberle, but as soon as I 
learn more I mean to earn more money. After the 
year at the Varieties is done I shall get a place as 
secretary. A secretary reads and writes for a lord 
or a duke, and gets a great deal of money. All 
the great men I read about were first secretaries ; 
the lord or the duke then had them made into 
bishops or book-writers, or whatever they wanted 
to be. I have not changed my mind : I mean to 
be a doctor. When I am a doctor, I shall cure 
people from morning to night, until not one sick 
or crippled person is left in London. I shall 
cure all the blind, and the humpbacked, and the 
club-feet, and the poor folks that crawl on their 
knees because their legs won’t hold them up. Eliz- 
abeth, why do you not learn too? Why do you 
not go to live with a great lady and learn to make 
music like the ladies we see through the windows 
in fine houses? When I learn much, I will teach 
you, Elizabeth — not a great deal, but a little; a 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB. 


87 


little, nothing more, for women do not need to 
know mucli or to be as wise as men who are going 
to be great doctors.” 

“ Richard,” interposed Benje, “ I got three pen- 
nies; must I give them to Gran, or may I keep 
them ?” 

“Give them to Gran, of course,” said Richard, 
firmly. 

Benje slipped from between Richard’s knees and 
went to make his offering. 

“ Two ladies gave them to me,” he said. “ They 
said I had lovely eyes.” 

“ Keep the pennies, my lamb,” said Gran, who 
was fond of Benje. 

“ What will you do with them ?” asked Eliza- 
beth. 

“ I’ll pay some of the children’s school-money,” 
said Benje, with his lip trembling sympathetically. 
“They come in the morning without the school- 
pennies, and then the teacher says, i Go home ! 
You can’t come in without the twopence,’ and 
they say their mother hain’t any penny to bless 
herself with, and their father has no work. But 
the teacher makes them go, and they cry. Oh how 
they cry !” and tears ran over Benje’s face at the 
recollection. 

“ Do they like the school so much ?” asked Rich- 
ard. 

“I know how it is,” said the Charmer; “I’ve 


88 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


been. It is not that they like the school so much, 
but anything is better than where they live. It 
is warm at school ; no drunken people are there 
to hit or kick them; they have chairs, and not 
the floor, to sit on. Often the teachers have penny 
dinner-tickets to give out ; often the master has 
asked folks to send him shoes or caps or clothes, 
and he distributes them to the poorest. Those that 
are not there don’t get dinner nor clothes, but there 
are plenty of them come without breakfast or shoes 
or shawls or the week’s pennies, and they are sent 
out to stand in the cold slush of the pavements so 
hungry they feel as if they must fall. When I 
went to board school, if I ever got a few pennies, 
I used them to pay some children’s school-money, so 
they could get in. Dozens of them are so cold and 
tired and weak as soon as they get into the chairs 
in the warm room they drop over against the desks 
asleep ; when the teachers are kind, they let them 
sleep it out. — Here, Benje, is another penny ; now 
you can pay for two to-morrow morning.” 

“ Benje is very kind-hearted,” said Gran. “ This 
week I saw him three times saving his bit of bread 
at noon to take to some one who had nothing ; he 
said the soup was enough for him. But I can’t let 
him do it ; he is a weak child, and he won’t grow 
if he isn’t fed.” 

“Keep your heart up, Benje,” said Bichard. 
“ When we are rich, we’ll set up school where every 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB. 


89 


one can come for nothing, and where we’ll have a 
hot dinner for the poor ones every day.” 

But now Christmas had come, and Benje had 
been gotten into the pantomime at Islington Thea- 
tre, and the Charmer’s protegee, Letty, took him to 
Islington at eleven in the morning, and about mid- 
night handed him in to Richard such a very pale 
and weary little boy that he fell asleep while Rich- 
ard washed his face and pulled off his clothes and 
laid him on his end of the lounge. Very big grew 
Benje’s eyes, and very small his face, and very white, 
before by the end of January the insatiable public be- 
came weary of pantomime. But Benje by his serv- 
ices had earned forty-eight shillings — twelve whole 
dollars — and he and Richard had clothes to cover 
them ; and after that last pantomime night Richard 
put his worn-out little brother to bed and kept him 
there an entire week, and fed him on soup, and, 
absolutely, meat every day; so at the end of a 
week Benje went back to school almost as good 
as new. 

Then there came a day at the end of February. 
Mr. Crosby told Richard he must stay at the Varie- 
ties all night, as one of the watchmen was very 
drunk. Who would go home with the Charmer? 
She would go alone, as she had done many times ; 
she would not wait for Elizabeth and the old Swiss. 

“I really wish you would not go alone,” said 
Mr. Crosby, who was by no means a very bad man 


90 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


or a very cruel manager, and had a regard for his 
Serpent-Charmer. 

“ Why, I can take care of myself ; Fm never 
afraid,” said the Charmer ; and away she went in 
her old waterproof cloak and little old felt hat — 
the fair and smiling Charmer. She would not tell 
them why she was so set against delay, and Mr. 
Crosby and Richard wondered why she had been 
so insistent. 

But Elizabeth got home before the Charmer, and 
she and Gran told the long hours of the February 
night sitting by the grate waiting for the Charmer 
who did not come — who never came again to the 
house in the No Thoroughfare where the coffin- 
maker lived at the foot of the stairs. And the 
pretty Serpent-Charmer was seen no more at the 
“ Varieties Consolidated,” where she had promised 
to stay for a year. Richard searched for her; so 
did Mr. Crosby ; so did the police, instigated by 
Mr. Crosby ; so did Auberle and Jacob and Mr. 
Rene, stirred up by Richard ; but none of them found 
the Charmer. They had no one to tell them that 
on that very foggy February night a carriage had 
rolled away into May Fair carrying the Charmer, 
and all the light and laughter had gone out of 
Gran’s home. The old dame’s stay and comfort 
and joy — her ewe-lamb cherished in her bosom, her 
Elsie better to her than ten sons — had gone from 
her. 


THE LOSS OF THE EWE-LAMB. 


91 


These were sad days when Benje cried himself 
to sleep, and Richard watered the cages of the wild 
beasts with his tears, and Elizabeth’s song broke 
into sobs, and Mr. Crosby tried to be patient with- 
out succeeding very well. Dark and hideous sus- 
picions filled the mind of Gran. To Elizabeth the 
solution of the mystery was death ; to the boys the 
Charmer was a good of late possessed, now lost. 

But Gran had lived seventy years in London; 
this loss in her faded, chilly old age had taken out 
whatever little warmth and glow remained for her 
in life. She sat and thought unutterable things. 
She knew that the Charmer was far too cheerful a 
spirit to kill herself, and then girls whose rent was 
paid, whose toes were not out of their shoes, whose 
breakfast was secured, did not fling themselves into 
that baleful river. 

“ Elsie never left you of her own accord,” said 
the coffin-maker’s wife to Gran; “I most wish I 
had nailed her up in one of them,” with a shake of 
her head toward the long pine boxes whereby she 
lived. 

“ I most wish you had,” moaned Gran. 

It was the old story of the beloved devoured by 
an evil beast — the old heart-cry, “ If I am bereaved 
of my children, I am bereaved.” 

Yet in that old enchanting story no evil beast 
had devoured the child. No doubt Gran would 
have felt more comfortable about her child if she 


92 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


had been lost in a desert where there are nothing 
worse than wild beasts, such as lions. In a Chris- 
tian age and in the capital city of a Christian nation 
Satan has so made his seat that Gran knew the 
wild beasts there are of those who cast soul and 
body into hell. Reviewing all the train of her sad 
life, poor Gran lifted up Jacob’s wail: “All these 
things are against me !” 

“We can’t do a thing for her,” said the coffin- 
maker’s wife — “ she’s out of reach — but didn’t you 
never pray?” 

“Long ago, when I was a child, I was taught, 
but I’ve forgotten all the words, it is so fearful 
long since.” 

“ I don’t mean that, justly : I mean when you 
has a trouble to speak it out of your own heart to 
God and ask him to help you. There’s a streef- 
preaching I go to Sunday nights where I heard 
about that, and that the Lord don’t hold it bold of 
us to come with our sorrows, but always hears ; and 
if so be he don’t answer immejit, at last he’s sure to 
help. He knows where Elsie is ; you can’t do bet- 
ter than pray to him to give her back.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

ST. BRIDE’S FOUNDATION. 

T^VERYTHING went wrong now that the 
Charmer was gone. There was no one to 
laugh and jest, to devise small treats and cheerful 
surprises of saveloy or buttered toast; there was 
no one to take a gay view of present surroundings 
and make the best of untoward circumstances. 
Benje and Elizabeth had no one to stem the cur- 
rent of their complainings. Richard, resolute and 
hopeful for the future, admitted, with Awberle and 
Jacob, that the present was as bad as the present 
could be. Gran had no future; she lived in the 
past, and she sat and sighed over it. There was 
no one now to see that Elizabeth’s feet were kept 
dry, and Elizabeth had colds in her head, which 
were no improvement to her singing. And then 
with the Charmer went fourteen shillings a week. 
Now the small community had only Elizabeth’s 
eight shillings and Richard’s six, and the weekly 
five sent Gran in stamps by Mrs. Tillman, aud 
what little Gran could earn by knitting — never 
over a shilling or two a week, for her rheumatism 
grew worse and worse. 


93 


94 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


So March was half gone, and it was a very cold, 
foggy, sleety, east-windy, depressing March. It 
was Sunday morning, and Gran sat by the fire 
nursing her gnarled fingers and prognosticating 
that soon she must go to the hospital. Richard 
had washed his clothes and Benje’s, and had hung 
them on a stick out of the window to get what 
drying they could in the foggy air. The church- 
bells rang over the city, but they had no message 
for this household. Gran, in the days of her worst 
poverty, when now her hat, and again her best 
gown, and at another tipie her shawl, would be in 
pawn, so that she never had, free of the ominous 
“ three balls,” her entire paraphernalia, had ceased 
going to church. Church-going was a habit which 
had never been begun for the others. 

Elizabeth was cooking the dinner. Watched care- 
fully by Benje, she cut up meat, onions, turnips, 
cabbage and potatoes, and set the pot upon the 
fire in the grate. 

“ It will be a good dinner,” said Benje, smacking 
his lips. — “ Say, Elizabeth ! why can’t we have meat 
dinner every day? Why can’t we never have a 
tart and — ■” 

But a knocking at the door interrupted Benje’s 
whys. 

When any one knocked at the door now, the faces 
of this little family paled and their hearts stood 
still. It might be news of the Charmer — bad news, 


ST. BRIDE’S FOUNDATION. 


95 


of course. Apprehending a policemen and words 
about the “ morgue,” Richard opened the door. 
A very impressive-looking personage stood there, 
and behind her a very oddly-dressed old woman. 
The two came in without being asked. The per- 
sonage with a rustling silk gown, a feather in her 
hat and a big black boa about her neck promptly 
took the chair which Gran vacated, and left the old 
lady standing meekly before her. The old woman 
who came with this grand lady was panting and 
coughing from ascending the stairs, and with a de- 
precating curtsey to the bonnet and the boa she 
sat upon the corner of Richard’s lounge and made 
various gasps and jerks to recover her breath. 

u I came from Mrs. Tillman,” said the Silk Gown, 
majestically. “ Old Mrs. Perch, at the St. Bride’s 
Foundation almshouses, was buried yesterday, and 
now the house is vacant for you — No. 10, the corner 
house — and I’m sure you ought to be most thankful, 
for a very nice place it is. You are to take your own 
things — your bed and table and chest of drawers, 
and whatever you have, you know. I’m to tell a 
man to come for them this afternoon, and I’ve 
brought Mrs. Rossiter, who has No. 9 at St. Bride’s, 
and she is to tell you all about it; and help you 
to put your things together, and go back with you 
in the cab^the cab is at the door; so you had bet- 
ter hurry about it. I can call another for myself.” 

Having thus exhaustively disposed of Gran’s des- 


96 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


tiny, the Silk Gown sniffed at Elizabeth’s cooking, 
and, remarking that she “ loathed onions,” bade 
Richard open the window. 

Gran looked about helplessly at the three children. 
There was now no autocratic, sensible Charmer to 
take care of them. True, none of them were of 
her kin. The two boys had been picked up in the 
streets by the Charmer, and Elizabeth was but the 
Charmer’s second cousin — not on Gran’s side of 
the family. Still, the three were all that Gran had 
in the world of familiar or affectionate; they con- 
stituted her family, and the tie was hard to rend. 

“ How can I leave the children ?” she cried. 

“ W ell, that passes all !” exclaimed the Silk Gown 
with asperity. “ Here for five years you have been 
waiting until Mrs. Tillman could get you into St. 
Bride’s Foundation, and thankful you ought to be. 
Old as you are, and poor, and crippled with rheu- 
matism by the looks of your hands, do you think 
better of ending in the poorhouse, pray ? You may 
make up your mind, if you won’t take what you 
can get, Mrs. Tillman is not to go on sending the 
five shillings a week ; she will give that to them 
as is more deserving and grateful. And if you 
change your mind to-morrow, it will be too late; 
I can find Mrs. Tillman some one to fill No. 10, 
and grateful to her for allowing it. So take it or 
leave it, and don’t waste my time, I do beg of you.” 

To lose the five shillings, and no doubt soon to 


ST. BRIDE’S FOUNDATION. 


97 


be unable even to make a shilling or two by knit- 
ting, Gran would then be dependent on the slender 
pittance of the children, and the workhouse must 
be the result. Evidently, she must go to St. Bride’s. 

Elizabeth saw it. 

“ Gran,” she said, “ you have looked for it years ; 
she said it was to be fine for you. Of course you’ll 
go ; we can get on.” 

“ I’ll take care of ’em,” said Richard, hiding a 
sob in his throat by making his voice heavy. 

u Can’t I wait — a week ?” pleaded Gran. 

“ I said take it or leave it at once,” said the inex- 
orable Silk Gown. 

“ Missis, you’d far better come at once, while you 
can ; it’s a rare chance,” said the old woman, who 
had finally found breath to speak. 

“I’ll go,” said Gran, and two great tears from 
fountains nearly drained by earth’s sorrows ran 
over her wrinkled cheeks. — “ Can I have an hour ?” 

The Silk Gown rose up and was more affable. 
Those tears may have melted a little of her hard- 
ness, or she may have been more pleased by Gran’s 
concession than she cared to show. 

“ You can stay until after dinner, and Mrs. Ros- 
si ter can stay with you and help you pick up. I’ll 
send the cab back after you, and I’ll not tell Mrs. 
Tillman that you was so ungrateful, and took it on 
you to make question about going, and acted as if 
it was a warrant she sent after you, and not a favor. 

7 


98 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


But it’s like the ingratitude of poor folks — quite, 
indeed !” 

“ What an awful cross lady ! — Elizabeth, why 
are ladies so cross ?” cried Benje, when the last 
rustle of the silk gown had drifted down the stair- 
case. 

“ If that’s a lady, I don’t want to see no more 
of ’em,” said Bichard. — “And you needn’t try to 
be one, Elizabeth.” 

“ She’s not a lady,” said Gran ; “ a lady is much 
more pleasant bespoken to the poor. She is Mrs. 
Tillman’s maid, and to my certain knowledge she 
was brought up in the blue-coat girls’ school, and 
as poor as poor ! But so it is, and I’ll make war- 
rant that, as she was so fierce to get me off to St. 
Bride’s, she has some reason of her own in it, and 
I make no doubt that my weekly five shillings is 
to go to some of her own relations that she has to 
do for.” 

Now, here the experienced Gran was very near 
the mark. Not that she shot beyond it, but she 
fell a trifle short of the facts in the case. She sat 
down in the chair which the Silk Gown had monop- 
olized, and began a pitiful sighing and groaning at 
being so unceremoniously torn away from her home. 

“ Don’t ye take on, my dear,” said Mrs. Rossiter, 
addressing herself to comforting Gran. “We are 
all as sociable as a hive of bees at St. Bride’s Foun- 
dation. We’ll not let you be lonely, and you’ll be 


ST. BRIDE ’S FOUNDATION. 


99 


as comfortable as can be. For us poor women that 
after a life of hard labor has only the workhouse to 
look to, St. Bride’s is like heaven itself. You’ve 
a house to yourself, you see — one room twelve by 
twelve below, and one the same above, and a 
grate in each, and a ton of coal put in for you once 
a year. You have a little garden-spot the size of 
your room, where you may raise a posy or a lettuce 
or a cabbage or sweet herbs, as you may choose. 
A pound a month is give you to provide your light 
and food and soap, and whatever you may need. 
At Easter you gets a pair of shoes and six yards 
of flannel and six yards of factory. At Christmas 
you gets a bonnet such as I have on. On Whit- 
sunday you gets a blue cotton gown, and on All 
Saints’ day you has a flannel gown, and once in 
three years you gets such a shawl as I am wear- 
ing and, having mentioned her raiment, the old 
woman rose up and exhibited herself as a raree 
show, turning round and round. Her bonnet was 
a huge black silk scoop with a full cap inside ; the 
shawl, a red-and-black check; the gown, a coarse 
warm blue flannel reaching to the ankles and with 
three tucks in the skirt. 

Having exhibited St. Bride’s Foundation fash- 
ions, Dame Rossiter sat down again and continued 
her discourse : 

“And it’s peaceful out there, mem; it do seem 
as if all the hurry and worry had fell away from 


100 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


us an’ left us a quiet time to prepare to meet the 
Lord, as we surely must. We poor women, as you 
know, mem, are that drove an’ worked that Sunday 
is to us the same as Monday, and, as for souls, we 
don’t know we have ’em, they not being outrageous 
after being fed and clothed as our bodies do be. 
But out at the Foundation, mem, the soul gets a 
chance to come to the front and stay there. We 
has the reg’lar services and the visits from the rec- 
tor an’ the ladies ; we has our Bibles an’ a quiet 
time to sit and read ’em ; and nat’rally, when we 
comes to see each other, there is talk of the next 
world, and so at St. Bride’s we ceases to be hea- 
thens and lives Christians.” 

Here Elizabeth prayed Mrs. Rossiter to lay off 
her bonnet and shawl and eat dinner with them, 
and then they would pack up Gran’s goods. 

Mrs. Rossi ter continued her description of St. 
Bride’s Foundation: 

“No men, unless near relations, come into St. 
Bride’s, nor yet boys ; otherwise, your friends may 
call and see you as they please. But, as we are 
far out north-west, few of them please. If you 
want to go away for longer than a day, you must 
get leave. If you are sick, you lets the chief lady 
of St. Bride’s Charity Guild know, and she sees 
that you are cared for well. To church you must 
go, unless ill, every Sunday morning ; also Christ- 
mas, Good Friday and other chief church-days. 


ST. BRIDE’S FOUNDATION. 


101 


And that I do not object to, but find it comforting 
and quieting to go to the Lord’s house and hear 
about heaven. A pound a month, when you crave 
a bit of meat and meat is high, and you needs your 
sugar and your drop of tea — a pound a month, being 
less than five shillings a week, with now and then 
a pair of shoes or felt slippers to buy, and all your 
kerchers and aprons and stockings, — well, it do keep 
you contriving. But the old cotton gown, when 
we gets the new one, do make us a bed-gown or so, 
and many is the good petticoat that the old shawls 
makes, not being nigh wore out when the new ones 
comes. Also, we helps each other. Them as can 
cut, sew or contrive well helps another; them with 
good eyes reads a bit of Scripture to them as is poor 
of sight. If there’s one main good at writing, she 
writes the letters, if letters there be ; aud, as we are 
all so poor and need each other so much, we can’t 
afford to quarrel, my dears. Also, we have all had 
times hard enough to make us willing to sit down 
quiet and not stir up wrath. And we are under 
strict orders to keep ourselves and our houses 
clean as clean !” 

Having thus expounded life at St. Bride’s Foun- 
dation almshouses, Mrs. Rossiter, protesting that she 
had “ not had such a beautiful outing for five years,” 
drew her chair to the table to partake of bread and 
Elizabeth’s olla podrida. Then all was stir and 
bustle, putting up Gran’s goods for leaving; for 


102 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


the almshouses of St. Bride’s were not furnished, 
and Gran must take what she had of household 
plenishing. 

“ It seems like robbing you,” she said to the chil- 
dren generally. 

“ No, it don’t ; we’ll get on. Besides, the things 
are yours, and that ends it,” said Elizabeth, and she 
sorted out tea-kettle and frying-pan, iron pot and 
tea-pot. 

“ Whatever will you do ? No tea-kettle !” cried 
Gran. 

“ It will save us the expense of tea,” said Eliza- 
beth, borrowing a leaf out of the Charmer’s phil- 
osophy. 

Then the carter came and the cab came. Gran’s 
clothes and goods were packed ; she had no trunk, 
but they put her few clothes in the one tub. The 
things were carried down ; then they all followed 
Gran down stairs. And now self-control gave way, 
and they all cried, and Gran too lifted up her voice 
and wept, and Mrs. Rossiter wept for sympathy, 
and the Swiss master and the coffin-maker and his 
family came out and added to the general deluge ; 
and it was very much as if they had put Gran in 
one of the coffin-maker’s long boxes and carried her 
away. For at seventy years this leaving all whom 
she had ever known and going to live all alone in 
an entirely new place and in a new way of life 
seemed to poor Gran quite like dying and being 


ST. BRIDE'S FOUNDATION. 


103 


resurrected in a world not nearly so good as the bur- 
ial service had promised. 

The children came up to their dismantled abode. 
The square of carpet was gone from the floor, the 
table was gone, three chairs were gone, most of the 
dishes and cooking-utensils were gone, Gran’s clock, 
which in its day had made many trips to the pawn- 
shops, was now gone on its last trip — to St. Bride’s 
Foundation. Gran herself was gone. The going 
of Gran was almost as sudden, and was quite as 
final, as had been that of the Charmer. 

Benje threw himself on his face on the floor, and 
began his vain inquiries : 

“Why didn’t they take us all? Why haven’t 
we any table ? Why haven’t we any Gran ? Why 
is this such a bad world ?” 

Elizabeth, on the one chair that was left, bowed 
her face to her knees and gave Benje no answer. 

Richard looked in despairing silence on the deso- 
lation of his first home ; then he pulled himself to- 
gether to repair the ravages made by St. Bride’s. 
There was yet left in the inner room the little bed 
of the Charmer and a bit of curtain drawn across 
the window. He smoothed the quilt over the bed, 
so that it should appear less desolate to Elizabeth. 
Then he swept the floor and remarked casually that 
it was good they had the box left : he and Benje 
could sit on that by the fire ; and there was the 
lounge yet, for them to sleep on. He went below 


104 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


and begged the loan of a wide bit of board to serve 
as a table until it should be needed as a coffin-lid, 
and he rested one end of the board on the window- 
sill and one on the arm of the old lounge, and ob- 
served that it was “ as good a table as any one need 
to see ” and “ there were dishes enough to go round.” 

The coffin-maker came up to see what the desert- 
ed children would do with themselves. 

“ We’ll get on,” said Richard. “ I earn six shil- 
lings and Elizabeth earns eight, and maybe I can 
find Benje something.” 

“ Fourteen shillings,” quoth the good man, “ and 
your rent will be five shillings; that leaves you 
nine shillings to get food and lights and fire and 
clothes for three — three shillings a week each. It’s 
a tight fit.” 

“ I’ve seen plenty tighter,” said Elizabeth. 

“ Summer is coming,” said Richard, “and we’ll 
need no fire and no light.” 

How they did it who can tell ? But through the 
spring and summer they lived on this pittance. On 
Saturdays, Benje sold flowers for an old dame at a 
stand, and usually earned enough to pay his two- 
pence schooling and buy himself five one-penny 
dinners weekly. 

Brought into this close grapple with poverty, 
with no Charmer and no Gran to aid her, Eliza- 
beth suddenly stopped complaining and became a 
wonderful little woman. She often rose at daylight 


ST. BRIDE’S FOUNDATION. 


105 


to mend her clothes and those of the boys, and to help 
Richard clean their poor room. How she managed 
their little cooking ! How wise she looked buying 
bones for soup, and scrap-meat at fourpence the 
pound to make the dinner ! How prudent was 
Elizabeth in getting the stalest loaf! how ingenious 
in making Benje think a penny’s worth of treacle 
a wonderful luxury ! how artful in getting slices 
of bacon and suddenly displaying them for supper 
when the three were exhausted on Saturday nights 
with twelve hours’ weary work ! What confer- 
ences had Elizabeth with the woman who trimmed 
coffins, learning from her how to make nothing serve 
as something and spread out a little until it seemed 
a great deal ! Can words tell the veneration Rich- 
ard felt for Elizabeth when she marked Sabbath as 
a white day by stirring together flour and suet and 
raisins — a pennyworth of each — and concocting 
therewith a pudding? And Richard continued 
his hard work with Peter Auberle. That things 
were so bad with them now was added reason for 
working very diligently for that future which was 
to pay them for all the pains of the present. 

Auberle wondered at his pupil’s progress. Rich- 
ard devoured the few books on Auberle’s shelf, and 
his retentive memory seemed to lose nothing which 
it had once grasped. He made his labors at the 
Varieties light and helpful by connecting with them 
his studies. As he worked among the cages of the 


106 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


wild beasts he rehearsed what he had learned in a 
geography, a book of travels and a book of ani- 
mals which he had read with Auberle. 

“ Fll make a showman of you some day,” said 
Mr. Crosby to him, electrified at hearing Richard 
explaining to some lookers-on the native home and 
habits of lions, hyenas and cougars. 

One Sunday afternoon Richard and Auberle were 
hard at work at an arithmetic — for Auberle had to 
labor to keep up with his pupil — when in came Mr. 
Rene. Master and pupil were sitting on the loom, 
close under the windows, for November was come 
again, and the light was poor. 

“ Auberle,” said Mr. Ren&, " why have you not 
been at any of the Bible meetings for months? 
Fve looked for you.” 

" What do you want me there disputing for?” 
said Auberle. 

" Eveu disputing helps you to think about it all, 
and I am always glad to listen and help to dissipate 
honest doubt, Auberle. I hope to do good to you 
some day yet.” 

"Well, Fve something better to do than go to 
your Bible readings, Mr. Ren&. Here is this boy ; 
used to live in Miracle Alley, and no more noticed 
or done for than if he had been a stray cat. Not 
that I blame you , sir, for, though I believe your 
religion is all a mistake, Fll allow you work and 
give from morning to night, and to look after all is 


ST. BRIDE’S FOUNDATION. 


107 


more than one man can do. Well, sir, Fve taken 
the boy in hand to teach. He’s a marvel, sir. I 
never saw human take to books as he does; he’s 
used up all I’ve got. He likes learning more than 
bread.” 

“ Well, Auberle, if you’ll come round to my room, 
I think I have there some of my old school-books. 
Come and help yourself ; you’re welcome to them. 
I wonder,” added Mr. Rene, with a faint smile, 
“ that they were not sold long ago ; most everything 
else is.” 

“ I know,” said Auberle ; “ sold and the money 
given away. Well, sir, I’ll come for the books for 
the boy ; only they’re not a bribe to come to the 
readings. We have no time for your readings ; we 
have history and geography and arithmetic to work 
on, sir.” 

“ It is written, 1 These ought ye to have done, 
and not to leave the other undone,’ ” said Mr. 
Ren A 

“ I don’t believe that,” said Auberle, stoutly. 

“Not believing facts makes no difference with 
the facts ; they remaiu, all the same. I know a 
man who does not believe that the earth is round, 
but his lack of belief does not alter the shape of 
the earth. Teach the boy all that you can, and 
I’ll help you in any way that I can. I think you 
would both find an hour well spent and your knowl- 
edge increased if you came to the Bible class. 


108 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


Why starve the soul while you feed the mind ? It is 
written, ‘ Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his 
righteousness ; and all these things shall be added 
unto you.' And I am sure, Auberle, that your 
goodness to this lad is an act of charity which shall 
not go unrewarded of God.” 

“ I don’t want any reward. And I’ve had my 
reward : I’ve got a little interest in life out of it. 
I began because the boy wanted to learn, and, as 
he was deprived of home, relations, food, clothes, 
friends, I thought it a pity that he must be deprived 
of knowledge too, if he craved and hungered for it. 
Besides, the knowledge will make him more danger- 
ous to tyrants, and he can better revenge himself on 
them.” 

“ Is that revenge your aim, Richard ?” said Mr. 
Ren A 

“No,” said Richard; “what I want is to be a 
doctor.” 

“ Come some day to my class, and I will tell you 
of a great Physician — the greatest that ever lived. 
He cured whoever came to him. He could make 
blind eyes see and dumb men speak and deaf men 
hear ; he could straighten crooked bodies and heal 
all diseases with a touch or with the simplest form 
of remedy.” 

“ Good !” cried Richard, with great joy. “ I’ll 
come hear about him. That is the kind of doctor 
I mean to be.” 


ST. BRIDE'S FOUNDATION. 


109 


Running home through the cold, damp twilight, 
Richard ran against a girl. She caught his arm, 
crying, 

“ Why, Richard! Don’t you know me?” 

It was Betty. Betty had grown as tall as Rich- 
ard. She was tidy ; she wore a red frock, a little 
round hat with a bit of blue ribbon on it, a wide 
cotton-lace collar, a pair of whole shoes. A cotton 
kerchief with a colored border was stuck in her 
belt. 

“ Don’t I look fine, Richard ? Do I look as nice 
as the girls you told me about ?” 

“ Well,” said Richard, critically, “of course you 
couldn’t look as pretty as the Charmer — no one 
could — but I don’t see but you look as well as 
Elizabeth, Betty. Her hair is yellow and yours 
is red, but that makes no difference. How did you 
get those good clothes?” 

“ Worked for ’em — worked four months,” said 
Betty. “ I’m servant to the baker’s wife in Magpie 
Lane. I get board and one and six a week. I give 
mam sixpence a week, and the shilling I have for 
clothes. But every minute I have I’m learning 
buttonholes, and I’m going in with two or three 
other girls for a buttonholer as soon as I can do it 
well enough.” 

“ You’d better keep where you are,” said Richard. 
“You have enough to eat; you won’t get that at 
buttonholes.” 


no 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ But I never can have a minute now, only a 
little while on Sunday afternoon. I go to bed at 
twelve and get up at five, and I won’t be allowed 
any followers ; and of course I will want a follower.” 

“ What !” cried Richard ; then, understanding, 
“Oh, you goose! Why, you are only a little 
girl.” 

“I’m near fourteen,” said Betty, “and many 
girls I know are married when they are fifteen or 
sixteen. I shall want some one to take me to a 
music-hall or a chop-house, and buy me sweeties 
too.” 

“But Peter Auberle says that boys and girls 
getting married at fifteen and sixteen is the curse 
of the age,” said Richard. “Then the boys run 
off, and leave their wives to starve. You stop at 
the baker’s shop, Betty.” 

“No, I won’t, if I can be independent,” said 
Betty. “It is much nicer to have some one to 
walk out with Saturday and Sunday evenings, and 
they all sing or play tag and look at Punch and 
Judy. I shall get me an ulster and wear my fringe 
down to my eyes.” 

For an ulster, however draggled, and hair banged 
to the eyebrows are the badge of the London work- 
ing-girl toiling sixteen hours a day for eight, ten, 
eleven or twelve pence at buttonholes, shoe-bind- 
ing, slop-sewing, box-making, and various other 
trades conducted on a semi-starvation basis. 


ST. BRIDE’S FOUNDATION. 


Ill 


When Richard narrated his meeting with Betty, 
Elizabeth put on matronly airs and said that she 
“ knew Betty was a bad lot, and he’d better never 
speak to her.” 

“ She’s not bad,” said Richard. “ She is indus- 
trious and honest and don’t tell lies. She is awful 
good to her mother and Aggy, her humpback sister, 
who is older than Betty ; she gives them all she can, 
and will half starve rather than share their little 
bit. If Betty only had well-off folks to be good 
to her, there wouldn’t be a nicer girl in London.” 


CHAPTER, VI. 


IN POPLAR COURT. 

T HERE are many families in London to whom 
three shillings each a week, with rent paid, 
would be a fortune. Ten, twelve, fifteen, shillings 
for a man with wife and five or six children, with 
rent and fuel and all to buy — that is the luxury of 
the London poor. 

But Elizabeth & Co. had extra expenses from 
their business. Elizabeth was expected to be dressed 
as a musical prodigy should be. She must have but- 
ton boots for the stage, a white frock for a Maying 
song, a Scotch plaid for her Scotch song, a green 
dress for her Irish song, and also such broad sashes 
and cotton-lace collars as the taste of the Public 
demanded. Elizabeth must keep these garments in 
order and pay for having them laundried. Eliza- 
beth had also her music-lessons to pay for. True, 
the old Swiss lowered his price from fivepence to two- 
pence, and Elizabeth worked harder now, but there 
was not only the twopence to pay, but the new songs 
to buy. Richard also had to have whole shirt, shoes 
and trousers in which to appear at the Varieties. 
112 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


113 


With such drains on their small resources, it was 
very hard indeed to get enough to eat. Twice in 
the summer they went on Sunday to see Gran, and 
found her well and becoming accustomed to St. 
Bride’s. But they were too weary on Sunday to 
go often to St. Bride’s Foundation, which was far 
beyond Primrose Hill. 

Elizabeth was not so fortunate as the Charmer 
in her enterprises. The pretty Charmer had been 
able to get Benje into the pantomime, but Elizabeth 
found no opening for him. 

Should they go to some cheaper room ? This was 
the question. The coffin-maker and his wife said 
that if they went to tenements where the rooms 
were one and six or two shillings they would be 
in houses that were full of thieves, drunkards, pick- 
pockets, the worst of the city. 

“ We are all very respectable here,” said the cof- 
fin-maker, “but there are houses where, between 
dirt and disease and wickedness, those children 
would be ruined.” 

So they stayed on, and it was December. Then, 
all at once, the Musical Prodigy lost her voice; 
only a faint, hoarse squeak came from the lately 
melodious throat. The Prodigy had had her voice 
overtaxed and overstrained. She had had no one 
of late to see that her throat was tied up and that 
her feet were dry. In truth, she had had no 
rubbers and no under-flannel and but little food; 


114 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


so the unhappy Prodigy broke down and stood 
mute and gasping before the audience, and the 
audience hooted and hissed and laughed, and the 
Prodigy left the stage with tears rolling down her 
cheeks. She foresaw starvation and the streets, poor 
child ! Mrs. Crosby seized her by the shoulder and 
shook her until she lost her breath, but did not find 
her voice. Mr. Crosby was merciful ; he waited a 
whole week for the Prodigy to recover. Then he 
turned her off and hired a Vocal Wonder with 
black curls. 

The Vocal Wonder bought Elizabeth’s stage 
wardrobe for eight shillings; that eight shillings 
soon being spent, the family now had only Rich- 
ard’s six shillings to live upon. The first week 
that the rent was not paid the agent stared : for 
over three years the tenants of this room had been 
punctual. The next week only part was paid, and 
he whistled. The third week only a shilling. 

“This won’t do,” he said. 

The fourth week — nothing. The agent investi- 
gated. 

“ What ! Only three children in the rooms, and 
only six shillings to depend on? Out you must 
go,” said the agent. “Before I know it you’ll 
be two or three months behind. That will never 
do.” 

But Elizabeth begged hard. She was sure she 
would get work soon ; Richard earned enough for 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


115 


rent and coal ; lights they could do without ; food 
they could pick up : wouldn’t he only try them a 
little while, please? She would that very day sell 
some things aud bring him two shillings of what 
was due. So the agent was appeased for just a 
little time. 

It was through Benje that final ruin came. 
Elizabeth had found a place to help Saturdays at 
a green-grocer’s. She received that day her meals 
and some vegetables for the day’s work. As they 
had no fire all day at their room and now the 
flower-vender did not want Benje, Bichard often 
took him to the Varieties, where he kept warm 
and ate nearly all of Bichard’s dinner, and could 
ask, 

“ Why do the monkeys smell so bad? Why 
has the snake no feet? Why can he walk with- 
out feet? Why is the tiger striped? Why has 
the panther such a big mouth? Why does the 
bear look so dull?” 

Mr. Crosby winked at Benje’s presence ; he was 
such a pretty child that Mr. Crosby could not turn 
him into the street. 

Daily, at noon, Bichard hung out at the door 
of the Consolidated Varieties a placard : “ The 
Lions Fed at Four O’Clock.” Spectators began 
to crowd in, and it was then that the Varieties was 
most popular. The eager sight-seers filled from 
floor to ceiling the tiers of narrow benches opposite 


116 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


the cages of the felines. The ravenous animals — • 
fed but once in twenty-four hours, and then with 
a lump of raw meat barely sufficient to check the 
immediate pangs of hunger — became fiercely impa- 
tient as feeding-time drew near. Those who had 
been sleeping or dully supine roused up ; with long 
strides they began to pace their cages. A low, deep 
murmur filled the air. Quicker grew the restless 
motion in the narrow bounds. Manes were erected, 
eyes glowed like coals newly fanned, tails lashed 
ceaselessly from side to side. The murmur became 
deep and loud, like wind rising in a forest or the 
beat of the swelling tide upon the shore. Faster, 
faster, up and down, turning with the swiftness of 
light, the long frenzied strides of the beasts told 
what a mad rush there would be were walls and 
bars once broken and the open gained. Deeper, 
louder, louder, fuller, rose those furious chest-mur- 
murs, until all the house was filled and pervaded 
with the tumult in which the clash and din of outer 
London, sweeping by the door, was lost. The lion 
ruffled and shook his mane and looked twice his 
size ; every hair on the lioness’s body stood erect ; 
the great tiger bristled ; the leopards sped to and fro 
like tongues of flame ; the cougars no longer strode, 
but sprang, from one side of the cage to the other. 
The lion pealed forth in a roar, the leopard respond- 
ed with a scream. Terror and dumbness fell upon 
all the other creatures in the show ; the lookers- 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


117 


on were breathless ; expectation reached its utmost 
height. 

Mr. Crosby, coming now to throw the meat, which 
was carried on great trays by two of his men, began 
at the leopard’s cage, and, taking the little cougars 
next, by some mischance flung through the opening 
in the top of the cage, not one allowance, but two. 
The cougar seized one, and Mr. Crosby hastily or- 
dered Richard to pull open the little front door of 
the cage and rescue the other lump of meat. Rich- 
ard the Fearless obeyed, but just as he drew the 
bolt he saw with horror that Benje had crept under 
the iron bar of protection and neared the lion’s cage, 
so close that the angry beast thrust out a paw and 
gripped Benje’s shirt-sleeve. The cougar was for- 
gotten ; the people screamed. Richard flung him- 
self on Benje and bore him to the floor, leaving the 
shirt-sleeve, a little bloody, in the lion’s paw. But 
as Richard sprang for Benje the unbolted door of 
the cougar’s cage fell open, and out like a flash came 
the cougar after liberty. Richard, clasping Benje, 
saw the furry yellow body leap by him, heard the 
wild cries of the crowd growing through all the 
Varieties into one universal shriek — heard the infu- 
riated Mr. Crosby shout as he passed him, 

“ If I find you here in ten minutes, I’ll be the 
death of you both !” and without waiting to know 
if the cougar ate anybody or anything, or if he were 
even caught, Richard, dragging Benje, fled away 


118 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


from the Varieties summarily dismissed and now 
entirely destitute. 

There was no hope for them now ; out of their 
home they must go, and no doubt their little all 
would be seized by the agent for rent. What should 
they do? The three children spent most of their 
time in the streets looking for work which they 
could not find. Until he could get work Richard 
could not even go near Auberle. What would it 
be but begging of the poor weaver? And Rich- 
ard knew the man had of late pawned nearly all 
his clothes, and was now gaunt from famine. 

On a Saturday afternoon — the very Saturday 
before Christmas; but the poor have no Christ- 
mas — Richard met an old man whom he had often 
seen selling matches near the Varieties. 

“ You did well not to go back,” said the old man. 
“ Mr. Crosby says his damage was five pounds, and 
if he ever sees you two again he’ll take it out of you 
by breaking every bone in your bodies. What are 
you doing?” 

Richard told his tale — nothing to do, no food, no 
fire. That very night they might be turned into 
the street and their few goods seized for rent. The 
people in the house were all so poor ! They were 
kind ; they had given them their food for a week 
among them. And now Benje was all the time ask- 
ing why he must be so cold, why they had no soup 
and meat, why everything was wrong with them. 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


119 


“ I can tell you,” said the match-seller, “ where 
you can get all the room you want for nothing. 
The agent has given up the houses ; he has not 
been there for six months. 

Where was it, and why was it ? Richard asked. 

“ In Saint Pankridge,” said the old man. “ It’s 
Poplar Co’t. The ’ealth-hofficers condemned it 
two year ago. Then the other man, ’e says as ’ow 
it was agoin’ for to fall over and folkses must get 
hout. Then the Saint Pankridge vestry tries to 
get ’em out, an’ landlord, ’e fights. They do say 
landlord be in fer two ’underd pound of fines along 
of ’is fight with Saint Pankridge vestry. So six 
months back landlord, ’e runs away, an’ since then 
there’s no agent an’ no rents, an’ folks stops there 
till Saint Pankridge vestry gets the lor on their 
side to pull all down. ’Tain’t what you’d crave 
nor I’d crave to live in. It’s dark, ’cause the win- 
dows was boarded up to make hus move out, but 
some of the boardin’ is tore off for fuel. All you’ve 
got to do is move in an’ take a room. There’s eight 
’ouses in the co’t, an’ six rooms in a ’ouse. You 
can go right hin ; there’s no do’s : the folks ’as 
pulled hoff the do’s to burn ’em.” 

“ It must be an awful place,” said Richard. 

11 So ’tis — so ’tis,” responded the match-sell- 
er, with a pride in his exceptional surroundings. 
“None worse in all Lon’on. It’s a reg’lar rookery. 
But what will you ’ave, with no rent hashed for? 


120 


RAG FAIR AND MAT FAIR. 


It’s better than the streets ; for hif you sits hin the 
streets, ’long comes a bobby, hand ‘ Move hon !’ ’e 
says, hand you ain’t nov’eres to move to.” 

Well, what better could be done? Richard had 
the astuteness of children brought up in a hand-to- 
hand strife with direst poverty. He argued that 
if they waited until nightfall they were likely to 
be evicted, with the seizure of their few possessions 
for rent due. He knew a good-natured coster-lad 
called “ Covent Garding ’Arry ” by his peers. This 
coster — a lad of seventeen — lived in the nearest 
mews ; he would move the household goods on his 
barrow to Poplar Court. 

Going in search of him, Richard found him 
just reaching his home, his barrow being empty. 
’Arry asked no better fun than to help Richard in 
a flitting. To run out goods from under the grasp 
of a wrathful landlord is a joy to a coster’s soul. 

u Let’s be quick,” said ’Arry. “ I’ve done well 
to-day ; sold my barrow out twice. If I keep on 
like that, I shall look about me an’ get married. 
I’m in a ’urry to-night ; I want to clean myself a 
bit and get on a clean neck-’ankercher and go see 
my sister, what’s a button’oler over by the Tower 
’Amlets. There’s three gals lives together an’ but- 
ton’oles. Saturday nights I hoffen takes ’em hout 
for a treat, an’ carries ’em a pinch of salad or a few 
taters for Sunday. I’m goin’ to give ’em stewed 
tripe an taters to-night for a reg’lar blowhout.” 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


121 


In great haste Richard explained the Poplar 
Court enterprise to Elizabeth, and, they being 
utterly penniless, with neither fuel nor food in the 
winter cold, what could Elizabeth offer better ? It 
was Poplar Court or the street for a choice. 

The coffin-maker’s family shed a few tears at see- 
ing them go. They did not ask where they went. 
True, they had lived long under one roof, but peo- 
ple poor as these have no time to pay visits or to 
keep up acquaintance. 

The goods were piled on ’Arry’s barrow. They 
were few enough when they set out; they were 
fewer when they arrived. Elizabeth stopped at a 
second-hand dealer’s and sold her bed and mattress, 
the chair, and all the dishes but one plate and three 
cups. 

“ It’s a rum place, an’ glad I am ’Arry ain’t to 
live ’ere,” said the stout young coster as he helped 
Richard and Elizabeth carry their belongings up 
the tottering and broken stair to an empty room. 
The lounge, two quilts, an iron pot, an iron pan, 
three cups, a plate, a knife and fork, an empty box, 
— these were the sole relics of the Charmer’s lately 
cozy home. 

And what a place was this where Richard, Benje 
and Elizabeth had found refuge ! The windows 
were boarded up ; the banister and every alternate 
step of the stairs, the baseboards and most of the 
doors had been torn off for fuel. The room which 


122 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


Richard and his family had seized had still a door 
with only one panel broken, and also a grate. The 
reason that such a palatial room was left vacant was 
that three persons had just died in it. 

These houses in Poplar Court had never had gas 
in them ; the poor denizens used farthing candles 
or little smoky oil-lamps. During the two years 
that the vestry of St. Pancras had been doing their 
best to abate the nuisance, the water-supply had 
been cut off from these Poplar Court houses ; the 
rates had not been paid, and the effort to make the 
place absolutely untenable had been carried to this 
extreme. But the cutting off of the water had not 
driven away the miserable human vermin of the 
city who had no other refuge ; they herded there 
still, and the nuisance and the danger to public 
health simply became worse and worse daily. Un- 
speakable filth reeked in Poplar Court; an awful 
stench rose from every corner of the eight houses. 
The helpless wretches who fought, shivered, starved, 
in these houses were resolute to stay in their free shel- 
ter until it was pulled down over their heads. 

With these disinherited humans lived rats ; great 
rats such as infest sewers swarmed in Poplar Court. 
The baseboards being torn off, nothing obstructed 
the excursions of the four-footed tenants of the con- 
demned houses. How Benje shrieked as these great 
uncanny beasts careered about the rotten, broken 
floor and fairly ran over his nearly bare feet! 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


123 


With part of the money — the very, very little 
money — gained by the sale of her household goods 
Elizabeth had bought a bucket of coal, a halfpenny- 
worth of kindling and a little food. Richard made 
the fire and went into the nearest street for some 
water in the iron pot. Then the lounge was pulled 
up before the little grate, and their house-settling 
was accomplished. 

Elizabeth cut up half a stale loaf into the water, 
adding a halfpenny-worth of beef-suet and some 
salt and pepper. This, when boiled, would be — 
bread-soup. While they waited Elizabeth rolled 
herself in one of the quilts, Richard and Benje 
were wrapped in the other, and thus they kept 
from freezing. 

When they had eaten the soup, Elizabeth said 
they should “ get to sleep quickly, before they got 
hungry again.” 

To prevent any of the neighbors robbing them 
of the small stock of food for the morrow, Eliza- 
beth wrapped it all in a newspaper and put it be- 
hind her, as she lay at one end of the lounge, Benje 
lying at the other, and one quilt serving for both. 
Richard, rolled in the other quilt, lay on the floor. 
During the night the rats ran over him, and once 
or twice nipped at his toes. But Richard, as we 
know, was used to wild beasts. 

Did we say that Poplar Court was a free shel- 
ter? We erred vehemently. Death was landlord 


124 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


there, and Death demanded heavy rents indeed. 
There was never silence in Poplar Court. That 
night, and every night, Richard & Co. heard the 
yells of men in delirium tremens, the groans of 
those in extremity in fever, the crying of little 
children who were cold, hungry, afraid or deserted, 
the curses and complaints of those whom famine 
had made fierce and despairing. And through all 
this hideous misery rioted Death. 

These houses, choked with sewage, were rife with 
fever. The wonder was not that so many died, but 
that any lived. The record of the winter was a rec- 
ord of fever-scourge ; not merely malarial and scar- 
let fever, but typhoid and black typhus, raged. Daily 
the dead were hurried off in pine boxes to the pau- 
per’s burial. The fever spread out of Poplar Court 
into the nearest streets, and then into streets farther 
away, and the bells of beautiful St. Pancras began 
to toll for decent Christians, and more and more des- 
perate and distracted grew the vestry of St. Pancras, 
waiting the slow motion of the courts, and the strifes 
over mortgages, and the interference of the railroad, 
emulous of more room near its station. And so the 
fever reeked up to heaven. 

Dwelling in this plague-stricken spot, Richard, 
Benje and Elizabeth suffered only from cold, fear 
and hunger. They sold pencils, matches and flow- 
ers ; they even begged. They sold the lounge, and 
all slept on the floor. They ate up the iron pot and 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


125 


the saucepan one Sunday ; the dishes, another Sun- 
day. Having thus sold all that they had, they lived 
on dry bread — if they could get it; if not, they 
went without. They had now and again a rift in 
the darkness, and a little light came through to 
them. God sent it, no doubt, to keep them alive 
for less evil days that were to come — as one even- 
ing Benje came in transfigured. His eyes shone; 
there was a gleam of color over his white face. He 
looked without craving at the small dry loaf Rich- 
ard and Elizabeth were prepared to share for supper. 

“ Eve had my supper,” said Benje, grandly. “ I 
w T as out by the end of the court, and I cried, I was 
so hungry ; and a boy — ’bout your size, Richard — 
asked me what was it, an’ I said I was so clemmed ! 
An’ he took me up to his room, Richard. He’s 
got a mother. And there was a fire, like Gran used 
to have, and a pot bubbled and boiled and steamed. 
And they let me get warm, and gave me soap and 
hot water to wash me, and then they put me at the 
table, near the fire. The mother had a gal an’ two 
boys. An’ they gave me all I could eat — porridge, 
hot, with treacle on it. I’m so afraid I ate nearly 
all they had ! I told ’em I was sorry I ate so much, 
only I couldn’t help it, I was so empty. An’ the 
mother, she said God bless me! I was welcome; 
to go right on. An’ I ate till I was full ;” and 
Benje patted his diaphragm with vast satisfaction. 
“ Say, Richard ! they ain’t like us. Before they ate 


126 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


they put down their heads — so — and made a pray. 
They said God bless ’em and make ’em good, an’ 
that God give ’em the supper. Richard, why don’t 
we make pray ? Why haven’t we any supper to 
pray about? Why haven’t we a mother? Why 
— say, Richard ! — why haven’t we any God ? Why 
don’t God give us a supper? The mother said I 
might come again, only to-morrow she is going to 
move, for there’s too much sick around here. She 
said she’d pray God for me, and I was a poor little 
lamb. Say, Richard,” cried Benje, suddenly incon- 
solable, “ why can’t I have a mother and a God and 
a house? And why am I a poor little lamb?” 

They were all poor lambs, as far as that went. 
They grew whiter and thinner, but they lived. 
Whether it was that there was too little blood in 
them for the pest to feed upon or that they had 
never poisoned that little with whisky or beer, these 
three walked scatheless while Death smote their 
neighbors by tens and scores. 

The fever spread and spread. The St. Pancras 
district was thoroughly alarmed. The doctors, 
druggists, undertakers and cheap coffin-makers 
throve that winter. And the bells of St. Pancras 
tolled and tolled. 

Before things became so bad with them, and 
while yet they had whole garments to cover them, 
when first they moved to free quarters, they went 
of a Sunday to see Gran. They went pledged not 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


127 


to tell her of their extremity, or that they had lost 
their places at the Varieties and been forced to flee 
from their decent little home. Why trouble poor 
Gran, who could do nothing but weep over their 
woes, and who was daily making her moan over 
the lost Charmer? 

It was a long pilgrimage — taken fasting — to St. 
Bride’s Foundation. How glad they were when 
they saw the ten little red-brick houses with white- 
brick facings, the neat little fences and the tiny 
squares of garden ! And then how comfortable 
Gran looked ! There was a fire in her grate, and 
she had a pot of geranium in her window, a Bible 
and Prayer-book — furnished by St. Bride’s — on her 
table, and the well-known square of carpet on the 
floor. Gran welcomed them, and, reading faintness 
in their faces, made them tea and toast at once. 
Then Benje lay flat on the floor with his feet to the 
grate, and went to sleep. 

Gran made Richard and Elizabeth sit in a warm 
place while she cooked dinner. Good Gran ! she 
was prodigal in her dinner. She cooked the stores 
that would have served her for days, and having 
cooked which, she must live on bread and tea for 
a week to get even with Fate. 

A lady of the guild had sent her a currant loaf, 
and Gran made the children take that home with 
them. She gave Benje a pair of mittens which 
she had knit to sell, and Elizabeth a pair of stock- 


128 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


ings. They were so loath to leave such pleasant 
quarters that they stayed until nearly dark, and 
reached Poplar Court at midnight. They ate the 
current loaf for breakfast. 

“But we won’t go again, B-ichard — not till we 
are better off and can take Gran something,” said 
Elizabeth. “ She sees how bad off we are, and it 
frets her ; and I know we ate up all she had in the 
house.” 

“ I s’pose we did,” said Richard, penitently, “ but 
I was so hungry I could not stop eating.” 

“Nor I couldn’t,” said Benje, with conviction. 
“ I felt just like — like a mad dog. Oh, Richard, 
why must I be hungry ? Why must I be cold ? 
Why don’t anybody care? Why w T as I made?” 

And these three were valiant enough to keep 
away from poor Gran, and the dismal days of cold 
and famine and fever went on until March. Then, 
one morning, the beadle of St. Pancras, in all his 
splendor, came through Poplar Court and told the 
people that now the vestry of St. Pancras was in 
full possession and this nuisance must be abated at 
once, and out they must go. Some few submitted, 
picked up their little all and went; the parish 
officials, finding some ill in — no, not in bed, but 
on heaps of rags or waste paper — summoned cabs 
and sent them to hospitals. The rest of the deni- 
zens of Poplar stubbornly sat in their rooms. 

Richard & Co. sat still. Not that they were 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


129 


stubborn, but tired — very, very tired. They had 
not even their two quilts now : some one had stolen 
them while the little owners were out. They sat 
forlornly huddled on the floor, until about four 
o’clock they heard policemen passing through the 
rooms evicting the recalcitrants of Poplar Court. 
Then Richard, Benje and Elizabeth walked — or, 
rather climbed — down the broken staircase, and 
went and sat on the crooked curbstone with their 
feet in the dry gutter. The others of the evicted 
made little heaps of their broken stools, old rags 
or tattered beds in the middle of the narrow street, 
and sat there and cursed Authority for cleaning out 
the most dangerous and death-dealing slum in all 
London. 

A big policeman, looking with pity at the three 
children, bade them come with him, and as they 
followed despairingly led them to a little coffee- 
house and briefly bade the proprietor “ fill ’em up.” 
They were given coffee, bread, carrot-stew and pud- 
ding — all they could eat. In the warm little room 
they sat, eating slowly, slowly, until even they 
could eat no more. They “ were warmed and 
filled.” Heaven bless the policeman who had given 
them not good words only, but those things which 
are necessary to the body ! They felt like new be- 
ings. They went to the nearest fountain, washed 
their hands and faces, smoothed their hair, and 
Elizabeth rebraided her long yellow locks. 

9 


130 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


But where were they to spend the night? 

“ Come on,” said Richard ; “ let’s go to the West 
End. I’ve heard there are rich folks there. I’m 
told that lots of people sleep on or under the benches 
in Trafalgar Square, and plenty more sleep on the 
benches in Birdcage Walk, at the Green Park.” 

Truly, there was no use in going to the East 
End. Old Jacob had distinctly said he was Rich- 
ard’s friend as long as Richard did well, and now 
Richard — through no fault of his own — was doing 
very ill indeed. He could no longer ruffle and 
boast himself, as when he kept wild beasts. In 
these four months of bitter misery, when all the 
strife had been for daily bread, Richard had not 
gone near Peter Auberle. Why burden Peter? 
They had no claims on the people in the house 
where they had lodged in Gran’s time. The poor 
know better than to carry their woes to other poor, 
who are evidently burdened already as weightily 
as they can bear. Yes, of course ; let them go to 
the West End. The wide streets, the huge build- 
ings, the gay shops, the bright lights, were there. 

St. Pancras parish lies midway between the East 
End and the West End, but a little north of mid- 
way ; so first the three wandered down into Blooms- 
bury. No one noticed them : they were merely a 
gaunt, scantily-clad boy and girl of twelve and thir- 
teen leading an under-sized lad of seven whose bur- 
den of mind was “ Why ?” — 


IN POPLAR COVET. 


131 


“ Richard, why didn’t we come here before ? Why 
don’t we live here, Richard ? Why can’t we buy 
those good things in the windows, Richard ? Why 
ain’t we like these other people, Richard ? Rich- 
ard, why are there any poor people like we?” 

They wandered on, and it was getting late and 
cold. At last they came to Trafalgar Square, where 
a stone Nelson and stone lions, Havelock and Na- 
pier in bronze, and the First Gentleman (and great- 
est knave) in Europe, on horseback, watch over 
the pavement and benches where nightly Lazarus 
comes to lie at the gates of Dives.* 

It was so late that all the benches, and the equally- 
coveted spots under the benches, were full. Traf- 
algar Square had no room for Richard & Co. 

“ Let’s come on to the Green Park,” said Rich- 
ard. 

Slowly they dragged on, and now the spectacle 
of the gayly-lit West End afforded them no con- 
solation. They were so very weary ! The miseries 
of the last few months had — as well they might 
have done — made them feeble. 

Arrived at Birdcage Walk, they were happy in 
seeing a man leaving a bench — to “ go for another 
drink,” they heard him mumble. As it was likely 
that he would be too drunk to find his way back, 
they gladly seized his vacant quarters. They lay 
down on the little bench, Richard’s head at Eliza- 
* Sleeping in Trafalgar Square was forbidden in 1877. 


132 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


beth’s feet and Benje held close to his bosom to try 
and warm him, for Benje was asking, 

“ Why is there no home for us ? Why is there 
no room for us in all the world ? Why is it so 
cold for little boys like me?” 

A woman sitting in a despairing attitude on an 
opposite bench watched them ; she had a child 
asleep in her arms. After a little she rose, took off 
her shawl, and came and tucked it over the three 
with a motherly touch. Elizabeth, too drowsy to 
more than half understand, heard her say, 

“ There ! They can have the shawl, poor things ! 
I’ll do one good act at the last. This is what chil- 
dren come to in London. I’m done with it; I’m 
going to the river — me and my baby.” 

She went away swiftly. Whether she went into 
the river who can tell ? Perhaps a day or two later 
she and the little one lay in the Morgue ; perhaps 
one of God’s human angels sent on errands of mercy 
met her and rescued her upon the way. 

Oh, it was very raw and cold that night in the 
Green Park ! The fog came and hid the skies ; 
the lamps faded aw*ay in the mist; the moisture 
pointed on the bare boughs and ran off like rain. 
When these three awoke in the morning, they were 
wet and faint and stiff The fog was so dense they 
could not see a yard from their faces. They rose 
and crawled about to warm by motion their aching 
limbs. They got out into the street ; a cab rattled 


IN POPLAR COURT. 


133 


down almost upon them. They parted and fled 
this way, that way, barely escaping instant death. 
Other cabs crossed and passed. 

Richard had held Benje fast through it all, but 
Elizabeth was parted from them. Where was she? 
So Richard sought Elizabeth in the thick darkness, 
and Elizabeth sought Richard. Their voices were 
muffled in the mist and drowned by the crash of 
cabs, and they lost each other as they had lost the 
Charmer. 


CHAPTER VII. 

RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 


W HEN Elizabeth, finding herself almost under 
the feet of the horses, dashed here and there 
in the gloom and found herself almost under the 
feet of other horses, she thought only of escape, 
until she stumbled upon what proved to be a door- 
step, and, standing on the threshold, she consid- 
ered herself safe. Then she called “ Benje ! Rich- 
ard ! Rich-arrrd !” but her voice was deadened in 
the fog and lost in the clash of wheels. When she 
had ceased trembling and found that she could nei- 
ther see nor hear her comrades, she ventured out 
into those soft gray, yielding, impalpable, impene- 
trable walls which as she moved still closed about 
her. 

Here and there she searched for her lost ones. 
Now she wandered beyond the curbstones and was 
once more in jeopardy among the wheels ; now she 
nearly fell down an area ; now she found herself in 
a space that seemed infinite ; now she guided her- 
self by keeping her hand on the house-walls, and 
so bumped against railings, and foot-passengers 
stumbled against her and swore at her. At last she 

134 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 135 


was upon a descent that seemed long and straight, 
and she went far — very far — and came up, at last, 
against a parapet. Below this she heard the lap 
of water. She had come to the Thames Embank- 
ment. 

Elizabeth saw something in the gloom : it was 
an iron seat. Completely exhausted, she curled 
herself up upon it and fell asleep. When she 
awoke, damp, stiff and sore, the fog had melted 
away and the March sun was shining, but coldly. 
As she sat up and looked around a policeman ap- 
proached her: 

“ You must not stay here, my girl. Have you 
nowhere to go?” 

“ Oh yes, yes !” said Elizabeth, in great terror. 
She had somewhere to go; only, the fog — 

“ You looked so tired,” said the policeman, “that 
I could not make up my mind to wake you, but 
now you must go home, you know ; it is after mid- 
day.” 

Oh yes, of course, Elizabeth said, she would go 
home at once ; and she set off as fast as her weak, 
aching legs could carry her. She paid no attention 
to her direction, but she chanced to go north-west, 
and on, on, through Vauxhall Bridge Road and Gros- 
venor Place, until about three o’clock she reached 
Hyde Park, and, utterly exhausted by fatigue, cold 
and nearly twenty-four hours of fasting, she sank 
down on a bench. 


136 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


In those long months of privation and self-reli- 
ance, Elizabeth, while growing thinner, had grown 
taller, and not only pallor, but profound gravity, 
made her face seem older than her less than thirteen 
years. Her clothes were scanty, thin and worn, and 
she looked with shame and pain at her feet and an- 
kles in ragged shoes and stockings freely displayed 
by her short torn frock. 

Just now she thought of nothing; she was in a 
state of stupor. The splendid carriages with coats- 
of-arms, coachmen, footmen ; ladies in velvet, lace 
and feathers ; little dogs in silver collars and vel- 
vet blankets ; dogs barking over carriage doors in 
well-fed insolence ; dogs which resented Elizabeth’s 
intrusion into Hyde Park ; splendid processions of 
ladies and gentlemen and grooms on horseback; 
stately old dames in fur-trimmed satin mantles with 
saucy little pages in button-trimmed jackets fol- 
lowing them, — none of these things Elizabeth saw. 
Slowly her head sank back against the seat; her 
eyes closed : she was becoming unconscious. Then 
four people who were leisurely promenading along 
the walk stopped before her. 

First, there was a girl of Elizabeth’s own age, but 
smaller, dressed in green velvet, with a long ostrich- 
feather curling about her hat and drooping to her 
shoulder. She stopped, on tip-toe drew near, bent 
forward, and like an augel of mercy looked on her 
sister from the East End. 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 137 


"When little Lady Hobart stopped, her governess 
stopped, protesting : 

“Lady Hobart, I insist on your coming right 
on ; you will get some disease. The police should 
not allow — ” 

Behind the governess stopped Lady Hobart’s 
page, in blue and canary, grinning chronically, and 
also stopped a woman with a bundle who was pass- 
ing through Hyde Park to refresh her eyes “ with 
the sight of quality ” as she took home her work. 

“ What is it ? What is the matter ?” cried Lady 
Hobart. 

“ She’s going in a faint,” said the woman. “ She’s 
clean wore out. You can see she’s clemmed.” * 

“ Lady Hobart,” said the governess, “ you must 
come on.” 

“ I won’t come a step,” said Lady Hobart, “ till 
I help this girl.” 

“ She is no doubt a very idle, thievish, naughty 
girl — ” 

“No doubt at all she is a very good, patient, 
kind, industrious girl — a great deal better than I 
am. My cousin Elsie has told me lovely stories 
of poor girls.” 

“ Your cousin will be the ruin of you. I wish — ■” 

“ What can I do for her ?” asked Lady Hobart 
of the woman. 

“ Feed her — as quick as possible.” 

* Starved. 


138 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“My good woman/’ interposed the governess, 
“cannot you take charge of this girl?” 

“ Indeed, no !” cried the woman. “A poor body 
like me, in servioe — ” 

“ Well, then pass on, will you ? If you cannot 
help us, go on, and do not, by standing here, make 
us more conspicuous,” said the governess, with dig- 
nity. 

Lady Hobart had in the mean while taken two 
and sixpence from her purse. She handed it to the 
reluctant page : 

“ Go at once ! Run ! hurry ! Buy me fruit- 
cake, biscuit — something, anything — from the near- 
est place. Mind, if you are slow, I shall have you 
dismissed. Hurry ! I’m watching you.” 

But, in the velvet bag, with the purse she had 
found two chocolate-creams. She put one in Eliz- 
abeth’s mouth ; presently, the other. As this deli- 
cate softness and sweetness melted in her dry mouth 
Elizabeth opened her eyes and looked steadfastly 
at the bright vision before her. Rag Fair and 
May Fair had met. 

The page came back, red from haste, and from 
rage that he must carry a brown-paper bag in the 
service of a beggar. The governess withdrew a 
little in indignant protest against the behavior of 
the rebellious Lady Hobart. 

Lady Hobart calmly seated herself by her sister 
from Rag Fair and opened the paper bag : 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 139 


“ Which will you have ? Here ! Sponge-cake ? 
Banana? Macaroons? Biscuit? Roll?” 

Elizabeth eagerly held out her hand for the warm 
roll, and ate it hungrily. 

“ That is good ; now you are better. Take this 
sponge-cake and the banana. What can I do for 
you ?” 

u Lady Hobart, if you do not obey me and come 
with me instantly, your uncle will find you another 
governess,” said the guardian of the disobedient 
miss of May Fair. 

But here came a girl a little older than these two. 
The girl had whole but very coarse shoes, a faded 
cotton gown, a rough ulster, a shabby round hat ; 
her red hair was banged in a fringe to her eyebrows ; 
her features were small; her mouth was red and 
open ; her gray eyes were round, innocent and anx- 
ious. In fact, she was Betty, advanced to be a 
“ button holer.” She stopped, surprised at Rag 
Fair and May Fair making picnic together in Hyde 
Park. Sight unprecedented ! 

“Girl,” said Lady Hobart, “can you take care 
of this poor child? She says she has no home 
and no friends. I will give her all the money I 
have ; it is only half a pound. Can you take care 
of her or get her work ?” 

“ Oh yes,” said Betty ; “ I can take her home to 
mam, and perhaps I can get her work in the match- 
box-factory with Aggie ;” and she took with alac- 


140 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


rity the half pound. Half pounds did not come 
to Betty every day. 

“Well, sit here, then, and help her eat up these 
things ; and when she is rested, take her with you. ■ 
Good-bye ! I don’t see why I can’t do more for 
you both and so Lady Hobart went off, holding 
her head high, while she received a lecture from 
her governess “ on low tastes and dangerous asso- 
ciates.” 

Betty and Elizabeth consumed the remainder of 
the supplies in the bag, and then Elizabeth asserted 
that she felt quite able to walk to the Tower Ham- 
lets. 

Oh, that was a long walk ! Elizabeth at last 
moved on mechanically, feeling stiff and sore as if 
bruised from head to foot. But on Holborn Via- 
duct they met a coster with a nearly empty barrow. 

“ Hello, ’Arry !” cried Betty. “ ’ Ave you ’ad a 
good day ?” 

“ Fairish,” said Harry. “ ’Ow do you come off 
’ere, Betty?” 

“The boss’s wife sent me t’other side of ’Ide 
Park of a herrand, an’ give me eightpence for a-go- 
in’ ; so I ’ad a kind of ’oliday, you see, ’Arry. An’ 
this gal I found in ’Ide Park, an’ a young lady 
give me ’alf a pound to take ’er ’ome an’ do for ’er ; 
so I’m takin’ ’er to mam. She’s nigh dead, ’Arry. 
Can’t you give ’er a lift on yer barrow ?” 

“ In course I can,” said Harry, lifting Elizabeth 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 141 


upon his barrow and moving on with Betty by his 
side, with her hand lying on the handle of the bar- 
row. “ You ain’t takin’ of ’er to Sis, then?” 

“ No ; she can’t make button’oles,” said Betty, 
with a toss of her head. “ Aggie’ll take her to the 
factory. Her ten bob will get her some clothes and 
pay mam for keeping of her till she gets work. 
We sha’n’t rob ’er.” 

“ You wouldn’t rob anybody,” said Harry ; and 
Betty looked well pleased and her cheeks grew red. 
“ I’ll come on Saturday night, Betty, and we’ll all 
go out agin for a lark,” said Harry. 

“ I’ll tell ’em you arsked ’em to go,” said Betty. 

“ I sha’n’t care at all for ’em to go ’less you come, 
Betty, ’an we’ll have fried liver and bacon.” 

Betty looked more pleased than ever, and walked 
on lightly beside Harry. She was just past fourteen, 
but, with the precocity of girls from the East End 
of London, felt herself grown up and old enough to 
have a lover, and to be thinking of marriage ; and 
this jolly young costermonger, with whose sister and 
another girl she lived, making buttonholes, was quite 
to her mind. 

Betty made about elevenpence a day by twelve 
or fourteen hours’ steady work. She and the other 
two girls slept in one bed, lived in one nine-by- 
twelve room, about one window of which they 
crowded with their sewing, supported life on bread 
and tea, with meat not more than twice a week, 


142 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


went in rags and hunger day after day, and had no 
other idea than to risk even worse hardships and 
entail on other beings the miseries of their own con- 
dition. The misfortunes of “ mam,” who had shared 
beggary with five children — among whom she 
counted a humpback and an imbecile — did not de- 
ter her daughter from designing to marry before she 
was sixteen. Indeed, these miseries had not had the 
effect of deterring “ mam ” from making a second 
marriage with a navvy who was generally out of 
work. 

Said Harry, 

“ I b’lieve I moved that gal’s things last fall to 
Poplar Court. She had on better clothes then. I’m 
sorry for her. I won’t answer for your new dad’s 
use of her ten bob if he gets eye on it.” 

“ He won’t get eye on it,” said Betty. “ And 
he’s no dad of mine; I don’t claim him. Mam 
was a fool.” 

“ I hope you’re not against marrying, Betty ?” 

a Not against it once,” said Betty, giggling and 
blushing. 

“ I’ve got to turn up here,” said Harry. 

“ All right ! you’ve give her a good lift. — Come 
on, girl; I guess you can walk now. We’ll buy 
you some shoes and stockings and a woolen skirt 
pretty soon.” 

“ Don’t forgit me, Betty,” Harry said as they 
parted. 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 143 


“ You’re too good looking to forgit, ’Any,” said 
the child of Rag Fair, frankly. 

Betty, whose long struggle with evil fate — a 
struggle as long as her life — had made her shrewd, 
laid out seven shillings of the half pound on clothes 
for Elizabeth. Then she took Elizabeth up to 
“ mam’s ” attic, and handed over the remaining 
three shillings to mam for a week’s board for Eliz- 
abeth. The money was a godsend to “ mam,” and 
she welcomed her boarder. True, mam, her new 
husband and her four children were living in one 
room ; an old mattress lying on the floor in one 
corner was the bed of Aggie, the humpback, her 
sister of ten and Elizabeth, the boarder. Two boys, 
one six and one twelve, lay on the floor w’herever 
they happened to throw themselves; a “ two-thirds” 
bedstead was the luxurious couch of “ mam ” and 
the navvy. 

“Mam” did not drink, and the navvy was more 
merciful than were many of his fellows in that he 
did not rob mam of her small earnings, nor beat 
her when he was drunk. When he was drunk, he 
merely took the whole bed to himself and left mam 
to find a place on the floor. 

Mam’s youngest boy was imbecile ; the eldest boy 
picked up what he could alongshore, and was some- 
times picked up himself by the police. The ten- 
year-old sister had fallen heiress to Betty’s business 
as step-girl. Aggie had just been “taken on” at 


144 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


the factory, and received a pittance of three shil- 
lings a week. 

By Monday morning Elizabeth was pretty well 
rested, and set out with Aggie to seek for work at 
the factory. 

Aggie was sixteen, but small from her infirmity ; 
she was soft of voice and pensive of face, and in her 
there was something meek and patient that Eliza- 
beth had never seen in any other girl, and which 
drew Aggie to her lonely heart. Probably she 
should never see Richard and Benje again ; she 
meant to look for them whenever she went into 
the streets, but already they might be dead, starved, 
trampled in the fog by horses, carried off by police- 
men. Her tender heart claimed some one to love, 
and she seized upon her new companion, Aggie. 

As they went along through the streets, early on 
Monday morning, toward the factory, Elizabeth 
sighed, looking for the two boys and feeling that 
they were finally lost to her. Aggie, holding by 
Elizabeth’s arm, said, 

“ Don’t be down-hearted ; you may get work. 
You are straight and strong, and you may go on 
to earn great wages. I know of a girl that earns 
six and six. I asked God to let you get work.” 

“ But why is it we poor folks are so dreadful poor 
and miserable?” cried Elizabeth, rebelling against 
her fate. “ No one helps us ; no one cares for us. 
The little beautiful lady I told you of wanted to, 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 145 

but the big lady wouldn’t let her. They think we 
are poison or wild beasts. ’ They hate us !” 

“ Oh no, I am sure not. There are some, I have 
heard, that spend all their time doing good to the 
poor. But we are so many that they cannot care for 
us all. Those of us that do not get cared for must 
wait, you know. And then God is never too busy 
to care for us ; he remembers us. It is no sign that 
he does not love us if we are poor and miserable. 
After a while he will take us to heaven, and heaven 
is much more beautiful than the country or the West 
End. There we shall hunger no more, neither thirst 
any more. That is a text Mr. Rene gave us at the 
Bible reading. As I cannot read, I can only get 
bits of news in my mind. Did you never sing 
about Paradise, where we shall go when we die?” 

No ; Elizabeth had learned many songs, but none 
about Paradise. 

Aggie, in a sweet, thin voice like that of a caged 
linnet which has never heard the songs of other 
birds in the open, began to sing : 

“O Paradise! O Paradise! 

Who would not sigh for rest? 

Who would not be 
At rest and free 

Where those who love are blest-^ 

Where loyal hearts and true 
Stand ever in the light, 

All rapture through and through 
In God’s most holy sight.” 


10 


146 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


Betty sang this song about Paradise as she thread- 
ed the foul and dismal streets of the Tower Hamlets. 

It was very pretty, Elizabeth said — prettier in- 
deed than the songs she had once sung herself. Now 
she had quite lost her voice. But she knew how to 
read. 

“ To read !” cried Aggie. “ Oh, then you will 
read to me? Mr. Rene said if ever I found any 
one to read to me he would give me a Bible with 
all about rest and heaven and the love of God in 
it” 

Yes, Elizabeth would read to Aggie — certainly. 

They reached the matchbox-factory, and the fore- 
man took Elizabeth on. 

A hundred wild and lawless girls worked in this 
factory ; the rattle of machines, the sharp orders of 
the foreman, the disputes, shrill laughter, loud quar- 
rels, or even swearing, of the girls, made a fearful 
din. The air, with the smell of resin, oil, fires, 
glue, the flying of dust, tin-filings and emery-sand, 
and the odor of unwashed persons and garments, 
was almost as foul as the air in Poplar Court. 

When the bell struck for noon, the girls bolted 
into the factory-yard. There was a long shed there, 
with benches and a rough board table : it was the 
factory dining-hall. Thither rushed the “ hands.” 
Some of them made little pots of tea at the furnace- 
fire; some had only dry bread or bread and cheese ; 
some raced out to a little eating-house around the 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 147 


corner, and came back with a tin plate of bacon or 
a tin cup of soup. Each provided her own food, 
and each ate her independent dinner, while the din 
of the work-room seemed renewed and redoubled. 

Aggie had brought two thick slices of bread spread 
with “ dripping.”* She filled with water a tin cup 
which she had brought, and she and Elizabeth sat 
down at a corner of the table. 

Then a plain, kind-faced woman in a black cloak 
and plain black bonnet came in, and, standing at 
one end of the table, near Aggie, began to read. 
Elizabeth was so tired and her head ached so that 
for a time she heard nothing; then these words 
came to her ears : “ Come unto me, all ye that labor 
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. 
Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; . . . 
and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my 
yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” 

During the reading some of the girls listened, 
some were dully quiet, some talked, some jeered, 
making more noise than ever. When the reader 
paused, some called out, “Go on! Go on! We 
will listen ; we like it.” And when she went away, 
they shouted, “ Good-bye ! Come again, Bible- 
woman !” 

In the factory the work which was given Eliza- 
beth was to sit on a high stool and pull down an 

* “Meat-dripping” — mixed fat tried out — is sold in the poorer 
shops of London to the many who cannot buy meat or butter. 


148 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


iron handle which drove a stamp upon some thin 
sheets of tin, cutting out at each bluw several boxes. 
She had only to pull down the handle ; then the tin 
bits were cut, and fell into a box. Nothing could 
be conceived more monotonous ; nothing in the line 
of work could require less thought or attention. 
Pull, pull, pull, all day at an iron handle — that was 
all. It was work for a machine, not for a human 
being. 

While there was no variety in the work, there 
were incidents in the home-life. There were inci- 
dents of being hungry and of being terrified by the 
navvy when he was drunk. Then, one night, the 
girls came home to find mam and the two younger 
children crying. The twelve-year-old boy had been 
arrested; next day, he would be sent to prison. 
Aggie, who had been so exhausted that Elizabeth 
had to help her up the final steps to the attic, roused 
herself and said she would go to Mr. Rene. She 
was gone until nearly nine, and Mr. Rene brought 
her back. 

“ It will be all right,” said Mr. Ren&. “ We 
have been to the lieutenant of police and the mag- 
istrate. To-morrow, when he is brought into court, 
he will be handed over to me, and I will get him 
taken on a school-ship. We will make a man of 
him yet ; you will see him a fine fellow some day.” 

“ PH go to Mr. Rentfs Bible class Sundays after 
this,” said mam. “ I never would, but now I will.” 


RAO FAIR AFD MAY FAIR MEET. 149 


u No, you won’t,” said her navvy, who was drunk. 
“ If you do, I’ll knock your head off. I’ll have no 
pious dodges round me.” 

There is no protection in England for a woman 
whose husband undertakes “ knocking ” her, so 
“mam” was afraid to go to Mr. Rent’s class. 
Aggie and Elizabeth went. 

Shortly after, the navvy brought home a big man 
who carried a small black bed on his back. 

“ He’s my mate,” he explained, “ and he is going 
to board with us. He’ll pay four shillin’ a week 
for his board ; so, old woman, you see to .it that he 
and me gets meat every day, and strong tea. No 
slops.” 

“ My goodness !” cried mam ; “ there’s no room 
here for him. We’re thick as herrin’ in a box here 
now.” 

“ There’s room,” said the navvy. “ Daytimes 
he can put his bed atop of ours ; nights he can drop 
it on the floor wherever he likes.” 

There were eight persons for the one room, in- 
cluding two men ; there had until now been seven. 
It is a style of living common in the East End, but 
not conducive to health or to morals. The drunk- 
enness, cursing and loud talk of the navvy and his 
mate terrified Aggie and Elizabeth almost out of 
their wits. They endured it for a week ; then one 
day the ten-year-old girl vanished. Mam pretended 
to cry and be anxious, but her grief was a sham. 


150 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


Again Aggie had gone to Mr. Rene*, and the girl 
was safe in the hands of Miss McPherson, to be 
emigrated. The navvy vowed that she had run 
away, and that if he “ met her in the street he’d 
beat her half dead.” There was no fear of his 
meeting her. 

Then, the navvy being off drunk, the six-year- 
old boy failed to come home from board school, 
where Aggie, at expense of more hunger to herself, 
paid his useless weekly twopence. He never came 
back, and it was because Mr. Rene had interposed 
once more, for Aggie’s sake, and the boy had, with 
his mother’s consent, been taken to a home. And, 
now that Aggie had done what she could for the 
children, she and Elizabeth prepared to go. For 
mam nothing could be done : mam had recklessly 
chained herself to the navvy, and he could claim 
her, no matter how drunken, brutal, abusive or 
criminal he might be. 

“ I’ll come to see you Sundays, mam, and I’ll 
bring you a sixpence whenever I can,” said Aggie, 
with tears, parting with her mother. “ And Betty 
will do the same, and Betty will come to see me. 
And you come too, mam, for oh it is such a nice 
place !” 

For the doors of Paradise had swung open for 
Aggie and Elizabeth. The Bible woman, interest- 
ing herself in these her two most attentive hearers 
in the factory, had heard of the horrors of that den 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 151 


where two men, a woman, two young girls and 
three children slept and lived in one room so small 
that when all were laid down at night there were 
not two square yards of unoccupied floor. She had 
planned the rescue of the little ones, and she had 
secured for the two girls shelter in the Factory- 
home. 

This was a tiny mission home, a free-and-easy 
home, for twelve girls. It had a motherly matron 
not too old, a bright kitchen with a range where 
the girls could cook their food, and a well-scrubbed 
table with clean dishes where they could eat it. 
There was a little sitting-room with some books, 
pictures and sewing-materials, and there were three 
bedrooms, each for four girls. In these beautiful 
tidy bedrooms were white beds with soft blankets, 
a looking-glass, a table, chairs, a bowl and pitcher, 
towels and brushes. The sun shone in, the air was 
pure, the floors were scoured clean, the matron’s 
cozy room was the heart of the home, and there the 
matron sat like a mother. So, when Aggie and 
Elizabeth entered that home, it seemed to them that 
they had entered Paradise. 

To Aggie this refuge was even more delightful 
than to Elizabeth. In spite of all her miseries and 
deprivations, physical life was strong in Elizabeth. 
She was quite capable of being betrayed into vague 
hopes that even in a world hitherto so hard some 
good thing might happen to her and she might be 


152 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


happy. But Aggie’s feeble life held loosely to this 
earth and all that belonged to it, and divine influ- 
ences were drawing all her thoughts and hopes 
toward that city where the nations of the saved 
walk, and where the Lamb is the light. 

To be able now on the Sabbath to creep into the 
most remote corner of a church and hear prayer, 
psalm and sermon ; to have her heart lifted up to 
that region of indescribable beauty where gates 
were pearls and streets were gold and the glory of 
God filled all the city that lieth four-square; to * 
think of the sea of glass, the full tide of the river 
of life, the tree whose leaves heal the nations, the 
harpers harping night and day, the crowns, the 
white robes and the palms, — this was to Aggie 
ineffable joy. 

And then, at evening, when the other girls were 
abroad and the weary Elizabeth slept with her head 
on her arms, Agnes talked with the matron. Those 
stories of the Christ which to us are twice-told 
tales were new to her. She seemed to hear his 
voice speaking to Mary, to see him touch the bier 
when those who bore it stood still. She almost felt 
his touch when he laid healing hands on the daugh- 
ter of Israel bowed down for eighteen years. Once 
let the mysterious gates between this world and the 
other swing open and her slip through, she should 
see him as he is and as he xoas. She, like Mary 
Magdalene in the garden, would sink down at his 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR MEET. 153 


feet crying, “ Rabboni.” He would call her — yes, 
even her, Agnes — by her name. He would give 
her welcome among the saints in light ; to him she 
would not be a pariah from the East End of London, 
but one bought by his own blood. 

It would have been idle to speak to Agnes in 
vague terms of a God, an all-Father, a Fountain 
of light far away. Her heart took hold of the 
thought of a personal Christ; she, like Job, had 
needed, claimed and found a Daysman that should 
lay his hand upon both. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ UP BETHNAL GREEN WAY” 

E LIZABETH having reached the month of May 
and the gates of Paradise, how has it fared 
with her confreres, Richard and Benje ? 

In that dense black fog, when Elizabeth and 
Richard fled each a separate way, thinking only of 
present extremity, Richard, true to the habit of 
his life, held fast to Benje. Dragging his little 
brother, he dashed about wildly, bewildered by the 
shouts of men, the clash of hoofs, the crash of 
wheels. In a moment or two — though it seemed 
a very long time indeed — they stumbled against a 
colossus which proved to be a policeman. The 
policeman quickly placed them on a sidewalk at a 
street-turning, saying, 

“ Get you home as fast as you can. This is no 
day for you to be in the streets.” 

London policemen always take it for granted 
that every child they see has a home to which to go. 
Yet the statistics of London give the policemen no 
ground for such an inference. Twenty thousand 
children, say the statistics, are homeless and destitute 
in London and its environs. 


164 


UP BETHNAL GREEN WAY: 


155 


“ Why can’t we see Elizabeth ?” wailed Benje. 
“ Why is it so dark ? Why do I ache so, Richard ? 
Why don’t somebody give me a breakfast?” 

Never being was less in harmony with environ- 
ment than was Benje. 

“ We’re looking for Elizabeth, Benje,” said 
Richard, with forced cheerfulness. “ And the fog 
will clear up soon, and we’ll find a breakfast.” 

So, as Elizabeth had gone blindly here and there, 
went Richard also, but always in ways far off from 
those taken by Elizabeth ; and, as she went south 
and west, Richard went east and north, and in a 
few hours the major part of London was between 
them. 

Richard walked slowly. He talked boldly and 
cheerfully; he stopped to rest; he carried Benje, 
he did all that he could do to console that very 
chilly, hungry and uncomfortable little boy. And 
all in vain, for Benje found it impossible to be con- 
soled as long as his blue toes stuck out of his shoes, 
and the raw wind entered great holes in the knees 
of his trousers, and his stomach was empty of any- 
thing but fog. Poor luckless Benje ! 

When the sun came out, it did not add particu- 
larly to Benje’s happiness, for now he saw bakers’ 
shops full of bread, and sausages hanging at the 
pork-shop doors, and apples and oranges at the 
fruit-shops; and savory whiffs from chop-houses 
and pastry-cooks tantalized his yearning palate. 


156 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


All that day no one seemed to think of offering 
these brothers a penny or a bite; no one had an 
errand for them to do, a cab door to open or a 
horse to hold. Then, about the time when Lady 
Hobart improvised for Elizabeth a picnic in Hyde 
Park, Richard concluded that he and Benje could 
not sleep out of doors again. If they became un- 
conscious from hunger and cold, who could tell 
where they might be taken or how entirely they 
might be parted? He would go to Auberle for a 
shelter; if Auberle were dead, he would go to Jacob. 

Auberle was first in preference and nearer in 
situation. If Richard had gone first to Jacob, he 
might have come across the path of Elizabeth ; 
but, giving up the idea of finding her that after- 
noon, he dragged and carried Benje “up Bethnal 
Green way,” and at last, full of fears, he stag- 
gered up his humble tutor’s staircase. Richard 
and Benje were about at the end of their forces. 
What if Auberle should not be there? 

But “ Come in !” answered to Richard’s knock. 
There was Auberle, sitting at a little table, read- 
ing by the bright lamp his favorite halfpenny 
paper. There was a cheery fire in the grate be- 
fore him, and on the fire a pot sent out whiffs that 
hinted broadly of impending supper. Auberle’s 
right leg was laid out over an upturned soap-box. 

Auberle drew his shaggy brows together, looking 
at the door beyond the circle of lamplight. There 


UP BETHNAL GREEN WAY: 


157 


he saw two pale and thin and ragged lads — a tall 
large-boned one and a small and slender one — 
clinging together and looking toward him. 

“ Richard, Richard !” cried Auberle. “ It’s nev- 
er Benje and Richard ! Come along here, you ras- 
cals ! Why have you given up your lessons and 
never come near me ? I looked for you well, and 
made sure you were dead or gone to the bad sooner 
than I expected you to go. Of course, in this cursed 
city, you’re bound to go to destruction some time ; 
you can’t help it.” 

By this tftne the exhausted boys were close by the 
fire and on their knees, holding out their cramped 
fingers to the glowing coals. Auberle interrupted 
himself to reach up to the shelf over the fire, and, 
taking down a stale loaf, he cut a thick lump of 
bread for each of his guests. Manna never tasted 
better in the desert than that morsel of stale bread 
to these two waifs of London. 

“ I am glad you came,” said Auberle, eying them 
as they tore and worried at the crumbs of bread 
like a couple of starved terriers. “ I’m flush, Rich- 
ard ; I earned ten shillings a week for four weeks. 
I took home the last of the velvet the other day, 
and somehow, coming back, I gave my ankle a bad 
sprain. It swelled the size of a water-bucket. But 
that woman they call a Bible nurse that trots about 
here heard of it, and in she comes. I knew, Rich- 
ard, that I was giving myself away as soon as she 


158 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


set foot inside my door, and I’ll tell you why. She 
didn’t fling it up to me; she didn’t need to : she knew 
I’d work it out myself. Have all the infidel clubs 
that talks brotherhood and charity e’er set a woman 
with a wise head, a skillful hand and a full bag to 
go about among the sick poor and nurse them? 
No ! It’s only the Bible people has done that, 
Richard, and you may make out of it the best you 
can. I’ve heard Mr. Ren& go it over more than 
one time : ‘ By their fruits ye shall know them ;’ 
and I tell you, Richard, when I come to investi- 
gating fruits as an honest man, I get shaky in some 
of my opinions. It’s true, on the Christian side, 
there ain’t as much fruits as there ought to be, but 
on the other side there’s none. Well, I was tellin’ 
you about this woman called a Bible nurse. She 
bathes and she bandages and she does one up. 
Well, it was a clean wonder how she did it. She 
swept my room and rubbed the window and set all 
to rights and cooked me a meal. I knew well she’d 
been waiting this three years to get a chance at me. 
But, in course, Richard, I couldn’t fault her sling- 
ing her Scripture at me when she was handling 
my ankle to beat any doctor ever I knew. Next 
day she comes again and brings as pretty a spoken 
lady as a man could wish to meet. The lady makes 
herself agreeable and inquires about weaving, drors 
a picter of the loom, asks all about the old weavin’- 
ways and the former pigeon-trade, and I gives her 


UP BETHNAL GREEN WAY! 


159 


three or four old wood-cut picters I had up on a 
shelf this ten year. Then, when they leaves, soon 
a boy comes in with a sack of coals, a quart of oil, 
a basket with marrer-bones, peas for soup, bread 
and taters an* ’alf a pun* in a letter, saying it was 
not a present from the lady, but only pay for what 
the information an’ the picters I had give her would 
be worth for a book as she was a-writing. Think 
of that, Richard ! A lady as writes books sittin’ 
where you sits this blessed minit’ ! So, Richard, 
there’s coals and there’s lights, there’s provisions 
and there’s money on hand, and welcome you and 
Benje are to share them all ; only you’ll tell me fair 
and square how all has gone since I set eye on you.” 

Benje was already asleep on the floor, but Richard, 
refreshed by bread and heat and the good cheer of 
Auberle’s narration, was able to begin the Iliad of 
his woes. It did not take long in the telling, but 
Richard’s sunken eyes and hollow cheeks and Benje’s 
squalid litttle figure were more eloquent than were 
words. 

As the boy told his story Auberle’s eyes glowed ; 
he shook his big fists toward all quarters of the great 
city, lying about him. 

“This is London!” he cried, fiercely. “Feast- 
ing and famine ! The men, the women, the little 
children, of the East End starved and kenneled as 
the West-Enders would say was cruel for their dogs 
and cats ! There’s them as don’t know how to kill 


160 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


their time, nor yet how to get through with their 
money, and never thinks they’ve errand or duty to 
human brothers that starve in dens that would sick- 
en a brute.” Then, becoming, happily, practical, 
he added, “ Well, Richard, you ought to have come 
to me before. And now, boy, fill the kettle at the 
hydrant down in the street, will you, and heat a 
pail of water and give you and Benje a wash? 
You can wrap Benje up in the bed-blanket, and, 
as I’ve got my other coat out of pawn lately, you 
can put it on you and take all your clothes and his, 
and this shilling, down to the woman on the floor 
below, and she’ll be glad enough to wash and mend 
up your duds for it. A master-hand she is at it, 
and keeps a stock of tailor’s bits to set patches. By 
the time you’re clean the soup will be done, and 
we’ll feast, my boy. And then you turn that little 
kid into bed, and you and I will take down the 
books, my boy. Why, there’s all Mr. RenS gave 
me for you hardly studied yet, aud I’ll be bound in 
four months you’ve nigh forgot all you learned so 
fast. Easy got, easy gone, my boy.” 

The soul of Richard revived within him at thought 
of cleanliness and decency, food, bed, books, once 
more. He made haste to fill the kettle, observing, 
as he did so, that Auberle’s small stock of house- 
hold goods and his clothing seemed to have returned 
en masse from the pawn-shop. There was a wooden 
pail to do duty as a tub, a square of brown soap 


[UP BETHNAL GREEN WAY: 


161 


and a towel left conveniently by the nurse, and 
Richard made the lather fly as he rubbed and 
scoured himself and Benje. Benje was so pleased to 
see whole continents of white skin appearing through 
his general griminess that he forgot to inquire why 
Richard rubbed so hard, why soap made your eyes 
smart, why suds had such an evil taste. 

So, at last, the dirty boys were clean boys; the 
soiled and tattered clothes were delivered to the old 
woman down stairs. Benje, pinned up in a quilt, 
sat in a heap on the hearth-corner, and Richard, 
buttoned into Auberle’s coat from his neck to his 
knees, kept as near the fire as he could ; and they 
all ate pea-soup. 

Then, while Benje slept, Richard explained to 
Auberle that he had not forgotten what he had 
learned, for amid all his tribulations he had found 
up “ Saint Pankridge way ” an old man who kept 
a second-hand-book stall, and he had done little jobs 
for this man to pay for the privilege of reading his 
books ; and when he could do nothing else with his 
time, he had sat under the old man’s counter and 
read, and had worked out examples in arithmetic 
upon the flagging of the sidewalk. Had he given 
up the idea of being adoctor? Not he! He more than 
ever meant to be one. He did not intend to stay thus 
beggarly all his life. But he had read books enough 
in the old man’s stall to find out how much there 
was to learn. He must learn not only English, but 
li 


162 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


a queer tougue called “ Latin ” and a thing called 
(( chemistry ,” which tells you what all things are 
made of, and also botany — another study, all about 
plants. Then he got down the books which Auberle 
had brought from Mr. Ren&, and found among them 
a grammar in “ the queer tongue Latin,” but Auberle 
said he knew nothing about it. But there was a 
Natural Philosophy which Auberle said he himself 
had “ dipped into and found it fine,” and a Chemistry 
which had such hard words and odd expressions 
and symbols that both master and pupil concluded 
“ it would take them a rare time to get even with 
that.” 

Perhaps there were hardly two happier people in 
London that night than were Auberle and his re- 
covered pupil examining Mr. Bend’s half dozen old 
school-books. But now and then between the blessed 
pages and Bichard’s eyes drifted the wan face of 
Elizabeth, and a great sigh rose from Bichard’s 
heart as he thought she might be starving and ter- 
rified, sleeping out in the cold, damp night in Bird- 
cage Walk or Trafalgar Square. 

For the next three days Bichard and Benje 
scarcely left Auberle’s room, except to run now and 
then for bread. They were recovering from months 
of cold, weariness and starvation. The Bible nurse 
said Benje must lie still near the fire, and she got 
him an order for a pint of milk a day for a fort- 
night. 


“UP BETHNAL GREEN WAY.” 163 

“ Another few days, and that little boy would 
have died of exhaustion,” she said to Auberle. 

a A country has come to a pretty pass,” cried 
Auberle, “ when men are a drug in its markets, 
and lest too many of them grow up to dispute for 
wages and loaves they starves and perishes ’em 
when they are little.” 

“ I hope these two will grow up for better things,” 
said the nurse. “ That Richard is a fine boy, and 
I believe he will make his way up and take little 
Benje with him.” 

But now Richard was himself again, and Auberle’s 
ankle was so much better that he could walk by 
leaning on a crutch which the nurse had lent him. 

Richard must now get work. 

“ You ought to get into a Apothecary’s shop,” said 
Auberle, “ but the nurse can’t find us one, no more 
than she can find Elizabeth, as you asked her to 
look for. I don’t know any ’pothecaries, nor no 
other folk do I know with work to do, except it is 
a barber. Boys is more wanted in barber-shops 
than in any other.” 

“ All right,” quoth Richard ; “ I’ll bet I can barb 
with the next one. Where’s a barber-shop? I know 
how it is done — lather the face and whirl a razor 
over it ; go for the head with a comb in one hand 
and a brush in the other; tie a towel on their necks, 
whisk another towel over their faces; pour some- 
thing out of a bottle on their heads ; make ’em a bow. 


164 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


‘ Next gentleman !’ I’ve looked through the win- 
dows loads of times.” 

“ It is not what I want for yon,” said Auberle, 
“ though, as I read, in ancient times barbers were 
a kind of surgeons also, and so part of the doctors. 
They bled people, and put on leeches and blisters, 
and did not merely dress hair, as they do now. 
Now a barber-shop is not on the road to a doctor’s 
carriage.” 

“ I’ll make it on the road, as there’s where I’m 
going,” said Richard Coeur d’Leon of “ Bethnal 
Green way.” 

“ I can get you into a barber’s shop I know of,” 
said Auberle. “ It is a small shop and he is a poor 
man, but he can find you in work and pay honest 
what he promises, and him and me belongs to the 
same club.” 

“ What’s ‘ a club ’?” demanded the revived Benje. 

“ A club,” said Auberle, “ is men meeting to- 
gether to talk of how all things is as they should 
not be and what will you do about it? The West- 
End clubs, no doubt, finds things to their minds, 
they having the upper hand entirely, and then they 
discusses how they can keep the poor man down 
and get the most work for the least wages, we to 
stand always hat in hand before my lords. Thev 
has club-houses all gold and marble, plate-glass, 
picters and velvet carpets and lace curtings. My 
club meets in the back room of a public ; we has 


UP BETHNAL GREEN WAY: 


165 


one smoky lamp and a row of chairs without back 
to ’em, and our dues is threepence a week and our 
meat and drink whatsoever we can pay for ; if not, 
go without.” 

After this discourse, Auberle — a very mild man- 
ner of agitator and anarchist, whose natural kind 
heart, as shown toward Richard, was ever at war 
with his head, as discovered in his remarks about 
the West End — set forth with the two boys to the 
barber’s shop. 

Richard already in anticipation felt a personal 
pride in the striped pole, and saw himself, like the 
barber-surgeon of a few centuries back, lancing an 
arm or setting a leech or cupping or administering a 
potion. Auberle’s influence, added to the immediate 
need of “ a handy boy ” and Richard’s unbounded 
confidence in himself, caused the little barber — Mr. 
Maypinn — to hire him at four shillings a Week if 
after a week’s practice, without wages, he should be 
found competent. During this trial-week Richard 
was to have his dinners, and, as it was pleaded that 
Benje could run errands, wash the steps, clean 
brushes and combs and wash out mugs, he was to 
be allowed to stay in the shop and get his daily 
dinner with the barber and his wife. 

Richard, during his week of probation being 
allowed to try his hand on such customers as for a 
free shave and comb would risk being slaughtered 
by the zealous neophyte, discovered wonderful 


166 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


dexterity in the tonsorial art. He combed, sham- 
pooed, trimmed, cut and shaved with the skill of 
an experienced hand, and, though he might not 
have been tolerated in the West End, he became 
popular “ up Bethnal Green way.” 

So, in May, when Elizabeth found a factory- 
girl’s paradise, Bichard had reached his kingdom 
in a barber’s shop. 


CHAPTER IX. 

WEST END AND EAST END. 

F OR a whole year did Richard stay iu his shop 
and Elizabeth in her paradise. It was a year 
almost without events in their history. On the 
whole, the boy had much the better of it. His 
wages were regular, Benje went again to board 
school, and the barber’s wife, taking him into her 
affection, gave him his dinners. The boys lived 
with Auberle, and Auberle charged them no rent ; 
so they were fed and clothed — after a fashion. 

And Richard studied. He kept his book open 
on a window-sill and committed passages, tables, 
formulae, rules, vocabularies, as he cut, combed, 
shampooed, trimmed, shaved heads. Mr. May- 
pinn was rather proud of his bookish apprentice, 
and glad that Richard could keep for him his small 
accounts and write out his little bills. Not only 
did Richard study with Auberle, but he found free 
evenings, now and then, to go to Mr. Rene; and 
begin “the queer tongue called Latin,” and get a 
certain light on chemistry, and be drilled in Eng- 
lish grammar. 


167 


168 


J RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


So, going to Mr. Ren&, he no doubt might have 
come upon trace of Elizabeth had not Aggie and 
Elizabeth passed out of Mr. Rene’s district and 
knowledge. 

The girls had been in their new home but two 
months when mam died. She was taken ill, sent to 
the hospital, died, and was buried without the navvy 
giving himself the trouble to inform either of her 
daughters. They had only Sabbath afternoons on 
which they could go to see her. One Sabbath she 
was in her wretched home, complaining of head- 
ache; the next Sabbath the pauper’s burial-place 
had her. Another family lodged in the attic-room ; 
the navvy had sold the two or three bits of furni- 
ture and departed. 

Betty and Aggie, meeting on their useless quest, 
heard the news from the neighbors, and, sitting down 
on the stairs, put their arms around each other and 
shed a few tears. 

“ You was always a good girl to her, Aggie.” 

“ I wish she could have gone to the Bible read- 
ing,” sobbed Aggie. “ It do seem so dreadful to 
have such hard times all along in this world, an’ 
never hear of anything better that’s to come. It 
do seem so dreadful, Betty, to go out of this world 
with it all dark about what’s to be hereafter. It 
do seem so dreadful not to know anybody — not 
God nor anybody in the world outside of this.” 

“ I wish there wasn’t any world outside of this,” 


WEST END AND EAST END. 


169 


said Betty. “ I do get so fearful tired button’oling ! 
I feel like as when I die I want to be done with, for 
I know I couldn’t be alive and not be tired.” 

“ You ought to sleep more, Betty dear,” said Ag- 
gie. “Me and Elizabeth, we gets to bed just as 
soon as we can. We may sit a bit on the door- 
step to cool and rest, and then we gets to bed. 
But many of the girls stays out on the streets till 
ten past, and Saturday nights they runs about till 
after twelve. Matron says it’s wrong.” 

“ Matron is an old prig, then,” said Betty. “ We 
must have our larks and a mouthful of fresh air. 
I’d rather run about a bit in the ev’ning than eat 
nor sleep. We gets a little fun chaffin’ people and 
playin’ tricks. You, bein’ weakly, don’t know the 
fun of it.” 

So the sisters parted, Betty promising that some- 
times on Saturday nights or Sunday afternoons she 
would go and see Aggie. And Aggie came no more 
into the Tower Hamlets : her duty and her home 
were far away, and Aggie, with hard work, hard 
fare and crooked back, was but feeble. 

Thus Agnes and Elizabeth went out of Mr. Bend’s 
knowledge. He was busy enough in the Tower 
Hamlets. Half a million inhabitants, in round 
numbers, dwell in the Tower Hamlets. Of these, 
seven thousand are habitual criminals, eighty-five 
thousand are the “ very poor,” such as “ mam ” and 
Betty, and seventy thousand more are of families 


170 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


numbering from four to eight or ten, living on four or 
five dollars a week, and so knowing, as daily house- 
hold guests, hunger and cold and exhaustion and 
hopelessness. Undoubtedly, the heart and the 
hands of Mr. Renej, and those who, like him, are 
trying to ameliorate the misery and enlighten the 
darkness and lift out of degradation this mass of 
wretched humanity in the Tower Hamlets, were 
right heavily burdened. 

Betty, according to promise, came now and then 
to see her sister. Betty was now tall and thin, 
looking nearer twenty than fifteen. Premature 
womanhood had come upon her. There had been no 
golden age of childhood for her. She had stepped 
out of infancy into the sharp strife for bread and 
the knowledge of life’s bitterest realities. As she 
had had no golden age of childhood, so she would 
have no calm, strong, helpful years of middle life ; 
after her sudden womanhood, old age or death. 

There was in Betty a painful longing to be happy, 
to enjoy herself; there was a pathetic striving to be 
lively and pretty and nice. Now and then, when 
something gave her pleasure, her eyes would bright- 
en and a faint wild-rose flush would glow across the 
thin face where famine and weariness and foul air 
had fed upon the roundness and the color. 

When Betty came to see Aggie, she brought ’Arry 
with her. Betty laughed loudly — a laugh rather 
spasmodic than joyous. She made rude jokes ; she 


WEST END AND EAST END. 


171 


was reckless of the present and of the future. She 
lived according to her lights. Agnes was power- 
less to guide or control her. What could Agnes 
offer her but a share of starvation and early death ? 

After Betty and Harry left them, and Elizabeth 
and Agnes had gone up to their bed, before any of 
the other girls were in, poor Agnes would lay her 
head against Elizabeth’s and cry over Betty : 

u Poor Betty ! She is so industrious and kind 
and generous ! What hard times she has had ! 
Never a winter but she’s been cold all the time ; 
never a day in her life but she’s been tired ; never 
a day, I really believe, that she has had all she 
wanted to eat. She’s only a little girl yet, but 
she thinks she is a woman grown, and pretty soon 
she’ll marry and have five or six little children cry- 
ing about her. And ’Arry’ll get discouraged be- 
cause he can’t do for them and they wear him with 
their crying, and he’ll be cross with hunger, and 
lie’ll take to drink and beat her and them, or he’ll 
run away and leave them. That is the way it goes 
for all of them ; I’ve seen it all my life. So it will 
be for my poor Betty. I’m glad I’m a humpback, 
Elizabeth, and too feeble to live very long.” 

Whereupon Elizabeth also would burst into tears, 
for she was of a tender nature and loved Agnes, 
and had no one else in the world to cleave to, hav- 
ing lost the boys and the Charmer. 

The girls of the factory were even less to Eliza- 


172 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


beth’s mind than was Betty ; they were loud, profane 
and quarrelsome. Yet there was also a rough loyalty 
and generosity among them, and a certain honesty, 
and each girl had a “ mate ” — another girl by whom 
she stood staunchly “ in evil report and in good re- 
port,” for better or for worse, in sickness and in 
hunger, sharing and helping. 

The little home where twelve of them lodged was 
very free and easy. Had it not been, only Agnes 
and Elizabeth would have been found to stay there. 
The rule was that they must all get in by half-past 
ten at night, with allowance of an extra hour on 
Saturday. They did not obey the rule very closely, 
and the matron winked at the infringement, striving 
by gaining a friendly influence, by helpfulness, ex- 
ample and advice, to create better habits and sounder 
ideas in her lawless charge. 

To get a neck-ribbon, however soiled, and to have 
a bang or “ fringe ” of hair close down to their eye- 
brows, giving them, as nearly as possible, the look 
of little dogs — this was their ambition. But we 
pause to ask, Why should they not cultivate the 
appearance of brutes ? Had they been better fed or 
lodged or taught, or kept cleaner than dogs? In 
all sincerity we say, “ No.” As far as most of them 
were concerned, dogs had much the better of it. 

Genteel Loudon was apt to denominate “ horrible 
creatures ” these girls — the girls of the match-facto- 
ries, the kindling-wood yards, and many other fac- 


WEST END AND EAST END. 


173 


tories where neither brain nor skill was demanded, 
so that their daily tasks, instead of elevating by in- 
ducing thought, depressed them by deadening their 
mental faculties. Genteel London turned from 
them in high disgust, and gave them the sidewalk, 
since they claimed it. 

When they went out in numbers through any 
district, they locked arms, three, four or five abreast, 
and took the whole pavement. If a woman of a 
better class held her way, perhaps unconsciously, 
they promptly swept her into the gutter. If a gen- 
tleman came by who did not step out among the 
vehicles, one of them would give a leap and dex- 
trously knock his hat off among the wheels, and a 
shriek of laughter would follow him as he went to 
regain it. The butchers’ boys and the bakers’ boys 
knew well that their trays of meat and bread would 
go where the hat went if they came within arm’s 
length. “ Don’t you crowd us, miss !” these fac- 
tory girls would cry to unoffending young-ladyhood 
tripping along, aggravating them with kid gloves, a 
neatly-fited gown, collars and cuffs and general well- 
being. So young-ladyhood was vigorously jammed 
against a lamp-post or a wall. 

Honible creatures indeed ! Is that the verdict? 
Was not all this merely the fierce revolt of humanity 
conscious of its human needs and rights lifelong de- 
nied. These individuals whom they attacked were 
to them merely representatives of a class and a sys- 


174 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


tem of things. And that system of things had seared 
their sensibilities, withered their gentler qualities, 
scorched and blighted their capacities, branded them 
as outcasts. In their petty way they were merely 
hinting of masterful and gigantic methods which 
in this world have avenged, if not righted, wrongs. 
Their lawless deeds were as little tongues of igni- 
tion smoldering, licking and lapping — little lambent 
fires akin still to those floods of flame which in the 
Jacquerie, the Peasants’ War, the French Revolu- 
tion, have burned out many iniquities, if they could 
not bring in righteousness. 

And the police ? Why did they not interfere ? 
If the police perceived and slowly advanced, the 
brigade of girls unlocked arms and fled in every 
direction with a chorus of derisive laughter. 

With these rude spirits, Agnes by her softer 
nature, and Elizabeth not by her superior nature 
only, but by her better education and more careful 
nurture, had little akin. The two kept together, 
and shrunk from the rest. These for a time tor- 
mented or attacked them, then jeered at or ignored 
them. But the few who showed desire for im- 
provement, and who, amid all their disasters, still 
possessed some hope and ambition, and evidenced 
the same by taking advantage of the mission home, 
presently came to like these two better, and to look 
on Aggie with sympathy and reverence, as one 
doomed to early death. 


WEST END AND EAST END. 


175 


The mission home did not pauperize the factory- 
girls by offering free shelter. One and six or two 
shillings a week was the charge for fire, shelter and 
lights. There was a little wash-room, with tubs, 
where they could do their own washing, and the 
matron tried to teach them how to do it well. 
They took turns in a certain amount of scrubbing 
and cleaning which kept the house in order, and 
each one provided her own food according to her 
own taste or means, and cooked it as she chose. 
Here, again, the matron was zealous to teach wise 
methods, and to give instructions in judicious 
cooking and providing. 

Not only were wages very low, so that it was 
hard to provide enough garments for decency and 
enough food to keep the wolf, famine, from gnawing 
at their vitals, but if once a girl lost a week, or part 
of a week, from illness, it was almost impossible to 
make up for that small bereavement of the daily 
wage. 

Then, in winter, there were apt to be days or 
weeks when work was very dull aud the factory 
was shut entirely, or open only a day or two in 
the week for a few hands. Then these poor creat- 
ures sold or pawned anything that they could 
possibly go without. They lived on bread and 
weak tea, had only one meal a day, and grew gaunt 
and hollow-eyed and parched of skin. Their hands 
shook, their legs trembled; they were hysterical 


176 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


and broke into floods of tears or paroxysms of dry 
sobs, and talked wildly about the river and the rest 
to be found there. 

And all these hardly-pressed ones were of ages 
from ten to twenty, and had such flesh, blood, bones, 
humanity, spirit, cravings, yearnings, needs, as the 
girls you and I, good friends, shelter in our homes 
and are careful lest the very winds of heaven should 
visit them too roughly. 

When no work made times so sorely hard, the 
matron begged or borrowed money and took the 
few pence the girls could gather, and, buying some 
vegetables, bits of meat and broken bread, cooked 
meals to keep her household from starving and gave 
them lessons in how to get the most food for the 
least money. 

On a feeble girl such as Agnes the winter starva- 
tion bore heavily ; also the confinement in the close 
room, when she had work, wore sorely upon her, 
and, as she breathed in emery-dust with all the 
other evils in the atmosphere, her lungs inflamed 
and ulcerated. She had a racking cough, a hectic 
fever, and soon was far gone in consumption. 

When May came round and Agnes and Elizabeth 
had been a year in the mission home, Agnes lay in 
her bed all the time, and Elizabeth pulled the mo- 
notonous handle of her machine to support them 
both. As she earned only four shillings a week, 
the support was meagre, though now the matron 


WEST END AND EAST END. 


177 


charged no rent for Aggie and provided her break- 
fast and nursed her tenderly. 

It was when Elizabeth was bewailing that she 
could not buy for Agnes oranges and grapes, and 
other delicacies, that one of the girls said to her, 

“ Why don’t you sell your hair ? I know a girl 
that sells her hair every two years. She sells it to 
Mr. Maypinn, up Bethnal Green way.” 

This notion being in Elizabeth’s head, she took 
an afternoon when there was no work and trudged 
off to Mr. Maypinn’s shop. 

Benje was in school ; Bichard was out on an 
errand. Elizabeth removed her little hat, shook 
down her back the heavy golden braid that had 
been part of her capital as a prodigy and asked, 

“ Will you buy my hair ?” 

Mrs. Maypinn gave a cry of admiration, but 
suppressed it with a view to the interests of trade, 
saying, 

“You’ll be much ’ealthier with all that ’air hoff 
your ’ed. And the time you’ll save not ’avin’ of it 
to do hup !” 

Mr. Maypinn controlled his emotions, asking, 

“ What do you want for it ?” 

“ All I can get,” cried Elizabeth. “ I’m selling 
it because my mate is dying and I want to get her 
nice things. Not that they’ll cure her, but I want 
to feel I made her comfortable, poor dear !” 

Mrs. Maypinn was soft-hearted ; she said, 

12 


178 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ Maypinn, you do your best by ’er.” 

“ I'll give you sixteen shilling an’ that’s the last 
’a’penny I can pay for you it,” said the barber. 

Elizabeth sat down in the big chair. She was 
eager to get the money ; Mr. Maypinn was eager 
to close his bargain. The result of this mutual 
haste was that Elizabeth had been gone ten min- 
utes when Richard returned, and, beholding on the 
table the long, thick braid of gleaming gold, cried 
out, 

“ Where did you get that ? I knew a girl once 
— a very pretty little girl — with just such hair.” 

“This ain’t her,” quoth Mistress Maypinn; “this 
one was tallish, and not pretty at all.” 

“ Clean yourself quick, Richard,” said Mr. May- 
pinn, with great joy, “ and go over with this hair 
to Monshue Fleur, in Oxford street, and tell him 
’ere’s the very braid he’s been a-lookin’ hover Lun- 
non for. An’ threepun ten is the least penny I’ll 
part with it for, an’ you’re to take the money an’ 
give a receipt. So off with you ! ’Ere’s three- 
pence, so you can ride the best part of the way.” 

Off with speed went Richard, never guessing that 
he was carrying the hair of his dear Elizabeth. 

When Richard had delivered the braid and set 
off for Bethnal Green with the money, Monsieur la 
Fleur cried in rapture to his stylish little clerk, 

“ Take this beautiful hair to Madame Tillman, 
and tell her I have just come on what she has 


WEST END AND EAST END. 


179 


searched London and Paris for, and six guineas 
is the very lowest price I can take.” 

Away then went the clerk with Elizabeth's hair, 
over sixfold advanced in value during three hours. 

Mrs. Tillman, protesting grievously at the price 
of the coveted hair, nevertheless bought it and car- 
ried it to her boudoir, crying, 

“At last I have found just such hair as I had 
when I was young. — Look, Elsie !” 

A girl in a blue silk gown, blue silk stockings 
blue kid slippers — a girl with a fluff of lace about 
her pretty throat and a cloud of golden hair about 
her pretty face — dropped her novel and rose up with 
a cry : 

“Oh, where did you get that, dear mamma? 
Tell me ! It is just such hair as my own blessed 
little Elizabeth had. Hundreds of times I combed 
it for her. Where did you get it?” 

“ I bought it. And I wish you wouldn't recall 
those times, my sweet Elsie. Of course it is not 
Elizabeth's, and I'm sure it is only your fancy that 
hers was ever as nice. And you know that Eliza- 
beth — poor thing ! — is dead long ago, and there is 
no use of your fretting yourself and spoiling your 
eyes thinking of her.” 

But this petted maiden of May Fair was no other 
than the lovely Serpent-Charmer, and the sight of 
that golden braid perfected in her a purpose long 
secretly entertained. She had, indeed, been told 


180 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


that Gran and Elizabeth were both dead of a 
contagious fever, and that the little boys had been 
taken olf to Canada. Mrs. Tillman had told Elsie 
this when, out of weeks of unconsciousness, she had 
aroused to find herself, not the Serpent-Charmer of 
the Varieties, but the adopted daughter of a lady 
of sentiment and fashion. Mrs. Tillman said her 
maid had searched for Elsie’s family, and had found 
them dead or vanished. But into the mind of Elsie 
had stolen doubts, and now she concluded to satisfy 
these doubts. 

Elsie took into her confidence little Lady Ho- 
bart, a second cousin of Mrs. Tillman’s, and these 
two made a secret escapade from governesses and 
lady’s-maids, and went in a cab to the No Thor- 
oughfare where once the Charmer had lived with 
Elizabeth and Gran and Richard and Benje. 

But the breath of fire had passed over this spot, 
and half the No Thoroughfare lay in black ruins, 
and no one was left there who knew anything of 
Gran or Elizabeth or the boys. 

“ But, miss, my dear,” said a loquacious shirt- 
maker who was interviewed by Elsie, u if they said 
they was dead with fever, no doubt it’s true as true. 
I only wonder one of us is alive. Black typhus it 
were, an’ it crep’ out of Poplar Court, and it took 
off the folk ’ereabouts by the tens. I never see so 
many ’earses nor so many coffins in all my born days 
together, and fifty year old I am. Friller my name 


WEST END AND EAST END. 


181 


is. Anybody will tell you about me — ‘Mrs. Frill- 
er, as lives in ’Andel street, formerly ’Enrietta, a 
first-class shirtmaker an’ well respected by all who 
knows ’er.’ That’s me, my dear, and dead they all 
are with black typhus, poor souls !” 

So Elsie’s quest ended. 


CHAPTER X 


LONDON LODGINGS. 



HE night before Agnes died Betty came to see 


A- her. She sat on the side of the little white 
bed, and cried over her sister’s extremity. 

“ Don’t cry for me, my dear,” said Agnes. “ I’m 
fearing you’re the one as ought to be cried over. I 
haven’t an ache nor a pain, and I don’t want any- 
thing. I’m ’appy, and I’m just waiting. Elizabeth 
has read me so much out of the Bible about the 
good land and the city. I am not to be kept out be- 
cause I don’t know anything, nor have anything, 
nor can’t do anything. I don’t need to do anything. 
Jesus bein’ ’special good to the poor and weak, all 
I have to do is to let him just carry me along. It 
is as when one carries a little child. But I’m main 
uneasy about you, Betty, my dear.” 

“ You needn’t be,” said Betty ; “ I’m all right. 
’Arry an’ me was married yesterday, an’ ’Arry is as 
good as gold to me, an’ says he allers will be.” 

“ Married ” ! These luckless children ! One was 
fifteen ; the other, nineteen. They had not a penny 


182 


LONDON LODGINGS. 


183 


laid up, uor a stick of furniture. Betty, by hard 
work at buttonholes, could make about five shillings 
a week ; ’Arry had the uncertain gains, the frequent 
losses, of a coster. Probably this marriage did not 
afford unalloyed consolation to Agnes’s dying-hour. 
Happily, she had other comfort : 

“ Bead me the verse, Elizabeth — my verse, you 
know.” 

“ ‘ Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto 
you ; not as the world giveth give I unto you/ ” 
read Elizabeth. 

“Yes; He gives to keep,” said Agnes. “And 
the ’special good ones, Elizabeth, so’s Betty can 
hear too.” 

“ ‘ They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any 
more : neither shall the sun light on them, nor any 
heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the 
throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto 
living fountains of waters. And God shall wipe 
away all tears from their eyes.’ ‘ Behold, the tab- 
ernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with 
them, and they shall be his people, and he shall be 
their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from 
their eyes ; and there shall be no more death, neither 
sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more 
pain : for the former things are passed away.’ ” 

“ And it says, i Whosoever will, let him come 
and take freely.’ It’s for me and you, Betty. Kiss 
me, my dear, good-bye.” 


184 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


After Agnes died the matron took Elizabeth to 
sleep on a little cot in her own room, and was to 
her as a mother. She taught her to sew neatly, and 
in the evenings they read together the books in the 
matron’s little library. Elizabeth, having these 
readings and conversations to think over, was saved 
from imbecility ; for what can be more likely to de- 
stroy mentality than to sit for twelve hours a day 
monotonously raising and depressing an iron handle ? 

This went on for another year, four shillings be- 
ing the weekly wages, with intervals when nothing 
was to be earned. The matron was Elizabeth’s 
only recourse, and it was hard to keep in whole 
shoes and garments. Then expired the lease of the 
small houses among which was the mission home. 
The land was rented for a great factory ; the home 
was broken up. The matron at this juncture was 
called from her work to the country to attend upon 
her paralyzed mother. Elizabeth’s friend was gone. 

Elizabeth and two other of the home-girls hired 
a room and put in it a few things given them by 
the departing matron. But this life with the two 
girls — no quiet evenings, no food for thought, noth- 
ing but daily gnawing of hunger and daily twelve 
hours of raising and depressing the iron handle — 
became unendurable. Elizabeth was past fourteen ; 
she felt as old as happier people do at fifty. She 
was slender and had gained nearly her full height. 
She felt that she must make a last desperate effort at 


LONDON LODGINGS. 


185 


self-rescue ; so, with four shillings of wages in her 
pocket, one Monday morning she turned her back 
on the factory-gates and fled toward Highbury. 
Labor had lost a machine ; humanity had gained a 
woman. 

Elizabeth went to an intelligence or servants’ of- 
fice which she had seen advertised. She had a few 
lines of recommendation from the matron. What 
could she do? She could clean and scrub, dust, 
make a bed, sweep, cook vegetables, make soup and 
tea ; the matron had taught her. 

“ Sit by,” said the manager ; “ I will see what I 
can do for you.” 

There was nothing that day or the next, but the third 
day Elizabeth got a place at two and sixpence weekly 
as maid-of-all-work for “ a decayed lady ” who was 
keeping lodgers. Elizabeth could not help a whim- 
sical feeling that the home and all its belongings had 
shared the decay of the fortunes of her employer. 
The mistress was a thin, weak-voiced, pale creature 
in a faded gown and a faded silk shoulder- wrap, 
habitually worn to conceal ragged waists. She had 
a cap with faded lavender ribbons, and about her 
throat a tangle of worn-out lace. Her carpets, cur- 
tains, bed- and table-linen, chairs and sofas were 
worn into holes. After darning became ineffectual, 
the various articles had been abandoned to the pro- 
cesses of destruction. 

Elizabeth was now the lodging-house slavey. 


186 


RAG FAIR AND MAT FAIR. 


Cheap lodgings there were for clerks who would come 
far up north for sake of low prices. 

What was Elizabeth’s daily life ? She rose at 
half-past five and scoured the front steps, walk and 
area and polished the door-handle. Then she made 
the kitchen-fire and “tidied” the front basement- 
room, which served her and her mistress as din- 
ing-and sitting-room, and where, as there was no 
other place for her, Elizabeth slept on a lounge. 
Then she put on water to heat, and, going through 
the house, collected four pairs of shoes, set at the doors 
by the four lodgers, and, coming back to the kitchen, 
she polished them. After that she took a pair of 
shoes and a pitcher of hot water up to the attic 
and knocked vigorously on the door until “ the At- 
tic” in question woke up. Down stairs now in 
haste, and a cup of tea, two rounds of toast and two 
boiled eggs were made ready on a tray and carried 
up to “ the Attic,” by this time dressed and rave- 
nous. With this tray Elizabeth managed to carry 
a tin can of water and two pair of shoes for “ the 
gents in the third story.” These gents were wak- 
ened as the Attic had been, and again to her base- 
ment went Elizabeth, made tea, fried bacon and po- 
tatoes, loaded a tray with these viands, dishes, a 
loaf, a pat of butter, and up to the third story 
without loss of time to spread forth a breakfast for 
u the two gents who roomed together.” 

And now “ the drawing-room,” or second-floor, 


LONDON LODGINGS. 


187 


lodger must be awakened, and, as he possessed a 
sitting-room as well as a bedroom, Elizabeth swept 
and dusted said sitting-room, while the “ Drawing- 
Room ” himself — for these lodgers were known by 
their localities — dressed, and the Attic and the 
Third Floor went off cityward on top of a ’bus. 

Back in the basement, and there she found her 
mistress, in a draggled wrapper and the inevitable 
shawl and lavender ribbons, cooking a chop for 
the delectation of the Drawing-Room. Elizabeth 
made ready the tray, with tea, toast, salad and meat, 
and carried it up to the Drawing-Room. 

By this time it was half-past eight, and Elizabeth 
had been hard at work for three hours. But now 
she and her mistress could eat. They took their 
meal together in great amity, the “ decayed lady ” 
drawing the curtain with care, so that no one should 
guess that she ate with her servant. She was not 
a cross nor an illiberal person. She gave Elizabeth 
butter for her bread, a fair share of the chop or 
ham, allowed her a spoonful of the marmalade and 
put milk and sugar in her tea. 

Elizabeth had never been so well and regularly 
fed. She was better off in this respect than were 
most lodging-house slaveys. After breakfast she 
went around the rooms for the dishes, brought 
them down and washed them. She set in order 
all three bedrooms, swept the stairs, and then went 
out and did the buying for all the house, for to 


188 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


go to market and carry a basket were acts far be- 
neath the dignity of “a decayed lady.” 

When the buying was done, Elizabeth cleaned 
windows and polished knives; and if fires were 
needed, she laid one ready to light in each room- 
grate and carried up from the cellar to every room 
a scuttle of coal. At two she and her mistress ate 
dinner. Then vegetables were prepared and towels 
were washed and ironed, and at five the Drawing- 
Room was home and wanted his dinner. Usually 
he wanted much more than his dinner. He wanted 
Elizabeth to go and buy him a paper; he rang his 
bell and bade Elizabeth go post a letter for him ; 
he rang again, and ordered her to run and see why 
the shoemaker had not sent home his shoes; he 
rang and told her to go to the stationer’s for pens 
or ink or “ commercial note ” — to the fruit-stall for 
pomegranates. He was a most exacting Drawing- 
Room. 

At six the Attic and the Third Floor wanted tea at 
the same time ; they were waited on in the order of 
their financial merits, and their consequent dignity. 
The Attic was served last, but Elizabeth hurried as 
fast as possible. Also the Attic and the Third Floor 
had errands for Elizabeth to do. 

Between-whiles of the errands Elizabeth and her 
mistress got their tea and toast. Then the dishes 
were washed, and at nine all the bells in the house 
were simultaneously rung for supper. Out flew 


LONDON LODGINGS. 


189 


Elizabeth to the nearest public for three pitchers 
of beer. Up the stairs she sped with trays of sand- 
wiches, bread and cheese, salad, potted meat or Welsh 
rarebit — and the beer. Finally, she and her mistress 
had their cold tea and bit of bread and cheese. The 
trays were carried down ; the dishes were once more 
washed. It was half-past ten or eleven, and Eliza- 
beth might go to bed. For all this she had two 
and six* a week, “and found.” 

v 

All the week went this way. On Sunday there 
was no stair- or window-cleaning, nor marketing, 
nor errand-going, but all the lodgers were home 
for a three-o’clock dinner. The landlady went to 
service in the morning unless the weather was too 
unpropitious. She made for Elizabeth a hat and 
gown, and gave her a little silk shawl and a pair of 
gloves that had seen wear, and sent her to church 
every Sabbath evening .with a warning to “ hurry 
back in time to fetch the gents’ beer.” Also the 
landlady bade Elizabeth “ read her Bible if she had 
time,” and asserted that she herself had been quite 
a religious person before her fortunes decayed. 

For two years Elizabeth held this place. Hav- 
ing no one to share her pittance of wages, and hav- 
ing developed great good taste and sense in buying, 
cutting and making her clothes, by degrees she be- 
came reputably clad. Now and then, on Christmas 
or from a departing lodger, she received a few shil— 
* About sixty cents. 


190 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


lings as a present ; and these gifts enabled her to 
get a good woolen gown and a coat. Her work 
was hard, indeed, but it developed thought, and 
her constant association with her mistress, and with 
no one else, improved Elizabeth’s speech and refined 
her ideas and her manners. The landlady had a 
number of books that had belonged to her hus- 
band — books of history, poetry, travels, novels, 
biography. Elizabeth read them all. Of all, she 
best liked a book on nursing, by Florence Night- 
ingale. 

At the end of two years hard toil broke Eliza- 
beth down. A doctor, being called, said she must 
go to a hospital, and that her cure would require 
five or six months. He had often noticed Elizabeth, 
as he lived in the neighborhood, and he was inter- 
ested in her, and said he not only would secure her 
admission to the hospital, but would speak about 
the case to a friend of his among the hospital doc- 
tors, and would see to it that Elizabeth was not 
dismissed until she was thoroughly cured. 

The landlady parted with Elizabeth with tears 
in her eyes. She never saw her again. The next 
slavey proved, like many other slaveys, “not fit 
to be trusted.” And, besides, the “ decayed lady ” 
was not sure that it would be quite genteel for her 
to go and visit her servant. If Her Ladyhood had 
not fallen into a state of decay, possibly she would 
have considered that on the part of those of high 


LONDON LODGINGS. 


191 


degree nothing could have been more gracious than 
to care for the lowly. 

And now, week after week, Elizabeth lay in a 
white bed in a hospital ward, and hardly noticed 
the days which drifted by. 

Elizabeth’s mind was too unformed to realize that 
in this world we are at school, and that our vicissi- 
tudes are various classes in each of which we are 
learning something. At the Varieties, at Poplar 
Court, at the factory, Elizabeth had been learning 
lessons in sympathy, in helpfulness, in depths of 
human need — lessons that were to serve to make 
her largely useful by and by. At the lodging-house 
Elizabeth had — in a hard way, it is true — learned 
lessons in order, in housework, in personal care, 
neatness, thoughtfulness. She had learned to keep 
house, to manage and to have her wits about her 
in an emergency. But in the hurrying life of the 
lodging-house she had had little time to cultivate 
her soul or her mind. She had grown a little, spirit- 
ually and mentally, chiefly by reading, but she 
needed just what she was now getting — a time to 
think, to learn, to meditate on what she learned. 

Christ took his disciples “ apart into a desert place 
to rest a while,” and so he takes his people apart 
into deserts still, and gives them “ their vineyards 
from thence.” Those of us who are of busy natures 
are apt to think it only evil when the strength flags 
and energy fails and lightest tasks prove burdens ; 


192 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


and then all burdens must be laid down, and we 
must “ rest a while.” But these are, perhaps, to be 
the very hours of our best growth. God sets us 
apart from the ceaseless toil of sowing and reaping 
for others that our own spiritual harvests may grow 
and be garnered. 

Hospitals are among the splendid fruits of Chris- 
tian civilization ; atheism and the much-boasted 
heathenisms do not develop this fruit. As hos- 
pitals are the product of Christian civilization, so 
they are held dear in the hearts of Christian peo- 
ple. There are those who go to them with the word 
of the good Physician, the Balm of Gilead. They 
walk among the hospitals as their Master walked 
in the porches of Bethesda. Some of these found 
Elizabeth, and, lo ! the time in the hospital became 
a gracious growing-season for body mind, and soul. 

Where all this while was Richard ? For a year 
after the day when he sold Elizabeth’s hair Rich- 
ard worked unremittingly at his books and in the 
barber-shop. He became so skillful in shaving, 
cutting, trimming, shampooing, hair-dressing, that 
Mr. Maypinn advanced his wages to six shillings a 
week and his dinners, and was in daily terror of 
losing him to some rival establishment. 

Now, it happened that Richard had by this date 
been through a small work on physiology, and had 
been promoted to the study of a large book on The 
Human Body — a book which for four months he 


LONDON LODGINGS. 


193 


had saved money to buy. This book enraptured 
him and filled all his thoughts. He studied it night 
and day, and refreshed his mind when pursuing his 
barber-work by repeating to himself the names of 
the various nerves, veins, muscles, or other portions 
of human anatomy which he wished permanently to 
impress upon his mind. One day he was shaving 
a tall, raw-boned young Scot, and as he vigorously 
lathered his subject he repeated, and, unconsciously, 
half aloud, the charming names of the facial 
muscles — “ stylo-maxillary,” “ digastrices,” “ stylo- 
hyoid,” “ sterno-hyoid,” “ thyro-hyoid.” 

“ What in thunder are you mumbling over my 
head at that rate for ?” demanded the young man. 

" Beg pardon, sir ; I didn’t know I was mum- 
bling. I was saying to myself the names of your 
muscles — e occipital frontalis,’ ‘ corrugatores super- 
cilii,’ 1 orbicularis.’ ” 

“ Well, here is a go ! How did you find them 
out?” 

"I’m studying anatomy, sir. I mean to be a 
doctor some day, and I keep up in my books along 
with my barber-work.” 

“ Come round here and let me get a look at you.” 

Richard came around, and he and his subject 
looked at each other. Richard was then past fif- 
teen ; he was big of body, had a large head, a rug- 
ged, dark, leonine face — a face full of power. Little 
could be seen of the face of his interlocutor, for 
13 


194 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


Richard had covered it from ear to ear and from 
brow to chin with foam until only a pair of keen 
blue eyes and a big mouth were visible among the 
waves of lather. 

“ You mean to be a doctor?” 

" Yes ; I’ve meant to this four years. And I’ve 
worked — oh how Fve worked ! But Pm getting 
on. The names are so long and so hard to remem- 
ber that I have to keep going over them all the time ; 
so I take them in with my work. Fm studying 
The Human Body now, and the muscles just fetch 
me. Have I got ’em all, did you say ? No, sir ; 
I haven’t. But I will, seeing there’s only four 
hundred of ’em. I begin at the top and say them 
all the time. Or I take a dig at the nerves. The 
inferior laryngeal is here, the glosso-pharyngeal is 
here, the superior laryngeal is hereabout — ” 

“ Look out there with that razor ! If you flourish 
it in that fashion, I’ll have you performing a tra- 
cheotomy on me, whether or no.” 

“ Oh, sir, do you think I could ? I read about it. 
I go to an old book-stall when I have a little time, 
and I read. The dealer keeps medical books, sir. 
I read all about tracheotomy : it’s cutting in right 
here. I know I could do it, to get out some sub- 
stance or let air in ; I believe I could.” 

Richard in his zeal was gesticulating wildly with 
his razor, and seemed ready to attempt the beauti- 
ful operation he was describing. 


LONDON LODGINGS. 


195 


“ Have done now,” said the student, “ and take 
this lather and beard off my face at once. I sup- 
pose you will be saying more big words over it, 
as shaving seems such an 4 aid to memory.' ” 

“Of course, sir. Why not? Hear me on the 
bones of the head. Here I come down with the 
brush ; I must touch you up again with a bit of 
lather, sir. Styloid, temporal, basi-hyal, thyro- 
hyal. Now I'm round on your chin: mandible. 
Up where you don't prefer to grow a moustache : 
superior maxilla. A dab under your eye : malar ; 
and when I get stuck for a name, I run to peep at 
my book. Now I take my razor in my hand and 
lay hold of you at the nasal. I notice, when I 
take up the hair-dressing, that your cranial struct- 
ure inclines to be bald. Yes, sir, since only by 
being in a barber-shop I could get bread, I've 
made up my mind that the barber's shop sha'n't 
keep me out of the doctor's office.” 

Finally, Richard had the young man's face 
shaved, washed, wiped, rubbed with bay- water, his 
hair dressed and trimmed, the check apron whisked 
from his shoulders, his collar and necktie put on : 

“ There you are, sir, fine !” 

“ Come here to the window,” said Andrew Gar- 
vin, “and let me have a look at you. You like 
this study?” 

“ Like it ! Oh, sir, it's beautiful ! There never 
was anything else so beautiful. To think how, as 


196 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


you may say, your backbone — I mean your verte- 
bra — makes the pattern for every other part of you, 
and your spinal column grows up just like the stalk 
of a flower and blooms out into your skull — I 
should say your cranium. And how the spinal 
cord — otherwise the cerebro-spinal tube — grows 
straight up inside the bones and blossoms out into 
brain, which has a terrible hard name — en — Some- 
thing.” 

“ Encephalon.” 

“ Thank you, sir ! Yes, just as a lily might grow 
up and bloom. It’s beautiful ! I’m glad, sir, I’ve 
been made, just to study about it.” 

“ How old are you, my lad ?” 

“ Well on to sixteen, sir.” 

“And how long have you been studying?” 

“Four years ago I did not know my letters, but 
I seemed to wake up all at once, and since then 
nothing has been hard to me. I learn things as 
soon as I look at them. And I keep them, too. 
My brain has got a grip like my hand. Feel my 
biceps.” 

“You have got a muscle. And how far are you 
with your studies?” 

“ I’ve had arithmetic, and Peter Auberle and I 
study algebra together. I’m at equations. Mr. 
Renfc helps me, and we have English grammar, 
and Latin into Caesar. There’s a Frenchman where 
we lodge, and I learned to read French, as I’ve 


LONDON LODGINGS. 


197 


heard the French are grand doctors and have great 
books about medicine. Fve gone through a geog- 
raphy and read a bit of history, and a Chemistry . 
I have read along in the Chemistry , but it is so hard 
Fm going over it a few times more. This shop 
gives me a good bit of time to study. That’s why 
I stay, or perhaps I might get a place with more 
wages. I used to study all Sunday, but Mr. Rene 
has proved to me that Sunday study is bad for my 
brain and my body, so I rest; and Benje goes to 
Bible class with me, and we have a Bible and some 
books about it to read, and so we got on.” 

“ This interests me,” said Andrew Garvin. “ I 
am poor myself, and am studying medicine. I have 
had to help myself pretty much, but I believe the 
self-helped men have the best of it in the long run. 
I am now in the medical school for a four years’ 
course; I’m just ending my second year. I’ll tell 
you : you need some tutors who know just how 
you ought to be drilled and will put you through 
for the King’s College examinations. You know 
about King’s College, over at the West End? It 
is entirely an examining college. You study where 
and as you can, and take your examinations there, 
and your degrees — if you can get them.” 

“ I know ! I know !” cried Richard, joyfully. 

“Well, I’m in King’s College medical school. 
And you should be tutored and pass the examinations 
and go through that medical school, do you see.” 


198 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ I see ! I see !” cried Richard. 

“Well, good-bye to you. Pll be here again with 
some of the other fellows perhaps. I take an in- 
terest in you. Dig away ; you’ll make something 
by and by.” 

“ Pm glad,” said Auberle, when Richard told 
him, “that it is a poor man working his own way 
that’s taken to you, not one of those my lords at 
the West End. One of them would take you up 
for a curiosity or a pet, as he would a new breed of 
dog, and then drop you after he had just made you 
sick of working your own way in life, and scornful 
of your poor friends and tender of his idle class.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

A STUDENT'S PARADISE. 



I HE student Andrew Garvin came again, and 


J- brought with him two or three other students, 
who waited for Richard to shave them, and mean- 
while discoursed. 

“Mary Anne,” said Mr. Maypinn to his better half, 
“ never did I have apprentice like this Richard, from 
first to last, and now, mark my words, Pm going to 
lose him. Keep your eye on them chaps from the 
medical college ; they’re after him.” 

“ Well, Matthew Maypinn,” said Mistress Mary 
Anne, “ you and I ain’t people to stand in the way 
of a boy’s bettering himself if he can. There’s few 
in this country can do it. ‘ Born in the gutter, stay 
in the gutter,’ is the rule. It’s hard to rise, because 
there’s so many a-top of us. I have listened to 
Peter Auberle many’s a time, and he do speak gos- 
pel truth, though he don’t hold with the gospel.” 

“ There’s where he’s wrong,” said Mr. Maypinn, 
“ and I’ve tackled him with it in the club. ‘ Auberle,’ 
says I, 1 you’re complainin’ of our hard lot and of 
the inhumanity of man, and you turns your back 


199 


200 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


on the only system as recognizes the brotherhood of 
man. The gospel says, “ All ye are brethren it 
says, “ God made of one blood all the nations of the 
earth ;” it says, “ God is the Father of us all it 
teaches to “ do to others as we would have others to 
do to us it tells us every man is our neighbor 
that we can help ; it shows how God made us all 
of one dust, and sends us all to one grave, and has 
only one heaven for rich and poor/ ” 

“ Maypinn, you do talk beautiful,” sighed his 
wife. “ I wisht I could go to club and hear you.” 

“ Mary Anne, clubs ain’t no place for women,” 
said her lord, with dignity. 

“Well, I know I could understand and speak 
just as well as any of them,” said Mary Anne. 
“ Don’t I see how in this country, where the land 
goes down in one line from father to son and is kept 
for amusement instead of for bringing out bread, 
and where the poor man can’t expect ever to be a 
landowner, and where he can’t look to reach high 
office or ever to be considered, on account of being 
crowded down by the idea of aristocracy, — don’t I 
know hope is gone, and the poor have nothing to 
look forward to but poverty and just have existence 
for theirselves and children, to hunger and rags and 
cold, father, son, grandson, and so on ? When hope 
is gone, Maypinn, all is gone ; and if you want to 
see a dull, hopeless, dispirited lot of people, just 
cast your eye around the Tower Hamlets and Bethnal 


A STUDENTS’ PARADISE. 


201 


Green and the East End, and the North Side gen’- 
rally. Oh, I know, if I am a woman and can’t go 
to no clubs. And I’m glad I’ve had no children to 
endure it, though most women has about sixteen, 
and says to me, f It do look mighty unnateral, 
Mrs. Maypinn, as you hasn’t any.’ Howsomever, 
Maypinn, we won’t stand in the way of Richard’s 
betterment.” 

Meantime, the students were quizzing Richard. 

“ Give me a few bones of my head while you 
shampoo me,” quoth one. 

“ Frontal, parietal, squamose, temporal, mastoid 
temporal, ali-sphenoid,” said the boy, glibly, touch- 
ing here and there the head which he was shampoo- 
ing. 

“ Let’s hear the fifth declension,” cried one. 

“ Deal out a few exceptions under the rule for the 
accusative,” said another. 

“ Have a try at the axioms,” suggested another. 

“ He is a prodigy,” said Andrew Garvin. 

The word gave Richard a twinge. How he had 
searched for the Prodigy of the Varieties, lost as 
effectually as the Serpent-Charmer ! He had gone 
twice to see Gran, but she knew nothing of either 
of the girls. That discouraged Richard, and Gran 
was so far off he went no more. If he had gone 
six months later, he would have heard that Eliza- 
beth had been given one holiday in her two years’ 
service, and had gone to see Gran. Gran was yet 


202 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


in St. Bride’s, hale and hearty and likely to see out 
her century. These mediaeval almshouse charities 
of England seem really to have more true philan- 
thropy and meeting of human need in them than 
half the modern benevolences. 

“ Now, see here !” said the students to Richard. 
“ We’ll take you in hand. You sha 1 be coached to 
take your first examination at King’s College next 
fall ; we’ll put you through King’s College, if tutor- 
ing will do it, like a coach and six ; you’ll come live 
with us. There are four of us, and you shall be 
our man-of-all-work — ” 

u And maid-of-all-work,” hinted another. 
il In fact, the only servant we have,” said Andrew 
Garvin. “ Just now Mrs. Friller, under pretence 
of waiting upon us, keeps us waiting while she 
finishes jobs of sewing. She tolls our coal and po- 
tatoes, overdoes our steak and thins out our milk, 
and makes mistakes about the tea. You are to clean 
for us, cook for us, wait on our table after you have 
laid the meals, do our errands, polish our boots, be our 
factotum. We will board you, teach you, coach you 
for your examinations as fast as you can take them, 
cram you with knowledge, and let you have all the 
books you can use. Your wages will be four shil- 
lings a week, and no doubt you will work like a 
slave from daylight until midnight. You must do 
our washing — all but our shirts and collars.” 

“ I can do it,” cried Richard ; u I’m strong. I 


A STUDENTS’ PARADISE. 


203 


will !” To him it looked like nothing less than 
Utopia, this living with four medical students, hav- 
ing all the books he could use, hearing their discus- 
sions, being taught by them, able at any moment to 
lay a difficulty before his masters. 

“ We are poor and you’ll have it hard,” said An- 
drew Garvin, “ but you will find it hard, at the best, 
to make your way as a doctor in the midst of com- 
petition and patronage. It is as well to get inured 
to hardships from the first ; you’ll make a tougher 
man. The Scripture says, ‘ Blessed is the man that 
hath borne the yoke in his youth.’ ” 

“ I don’t believe,” said Richard, with modest 
pride, “that many folks have had it harder than 
I have all my life.” 

“ How much time will it take you to break up 
here ?” asked Garvin. “ The sooner you tackle your 
books under our supervision, the better. I’m in a 
hurry to see what I can make of you.” 

“ I must give my master, Mr. Maypinn, a few 
days to get some one in my place,” said Richard, 
“ and I must see Auberle and Mr. Ren**. And oh, 
there’s Benje ! Can I bring Benje?” 

But the students were all against having a lad 
of less than ten at their lodgings : “ They had no 
use for small kids.” — “You’ll never study if he’s 
around.” — “Couldn’t find the room for him.” — 
“Couldn’t stand the noise and capers of a kid.” 
They condemned Benje unseen. One and all felt 


204 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


that the little brother would be a hindrance and a 
burden to the progress of Richard. 

“Well, I must see about it,” said Richard. “ I 
have taken care of Benje ever since before he 
couldn’t walk, and I mean to have him study and 
rise as I rise, and I must see what can be done with 
Benje before I know what I can do myself.” 

After the students left, Mr. and Mrs. Maypiun 
heard their propositions. 

“ It will make a man of you,” said Mr. Maypinn. 
“ So long as you mean to be a doctor and needs to 
go through colleges, why here’s a master-chance for 
you, and I call it a clear rendering of Providence. 
You go ’long, and I’ll take care of Benje.” 

As soon as custom in the barber-shop so slack- 
ened that he could get away, off ran Richard to 
Auberle. 

Auberle agreed with Mr. Maypinn that here was 
a good chance for Richard. 

“ It will not be a deserting of Benje,” said Au- 
berle. “ Benje is to live here with me, and I’ll 
instruct him in place of you. I’ll miss teaching 
of you the very worst kind, Richard. You can 
see the child every week, and he must pick up a 
bit of living for hisself. You did it at his age ; 
and if you are going to college examinations, and 
such like, you must keep enough of your wage to 
go with a whole suit on your back. The best brains, 
Richard, wouldn’t get you on the examiners’ lists 


A STUDENTS' PARADISE. 


205 


if you went with rags on your back and toes pok- 
ing out of your shoes.” 

“ Thanks to old Jacob, my toes and Benje’s have 
been always well kept in, except those dreadful 
months we lived in Poplar Court.” 

“As it turned out, Pm glad you did live there,” 
said Auberle. “Now you know how part of the 
world does live; and if the time comes as you sleep 
in down, you’ll know them as has equal flesh and 
blood lies on the rotting boards of dens with sewer- 
rats running round over them and nibbling at their 
toes. No matter how rich you may grow, unless 
you lose your memory you will remember that 
starvation and pain and rags and drunkenness riot 
in half this great city among people upon whom 
the door of Hope is shut, and, wherever you go, 
the bitter cry of Misery will be one of the notes 
that ring in your ears.” 

Auberle had a native eloquence, and he culti- 
vated speaking in his club. His words and tones 
impressed Richard ; he looked earnestly at the 
weaver : 

“Auberle, don’t speak as if I meant to grow 
away from them — these people I’ve been among. 
To me all the tired, hungry children will always 
be Benje asking ‘Why?’ all the poor girls will 
be Betty. I saw Betty the other day, Auberle; 
she looked very poor and worn out, and had a sickly 
little baby in her arms, and she said her husband 


206 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


had had big losses and small gains of late, and she 
had lost work on account of not being strong enough 
to work steady since her baby came. Poor Betty ! 
she’s so thin and pale ! And Elizabeth, Auberle : 
in the poor little girls trying to find work, and not 
able to, I’ll see Elizabeth ; and in others — Well, 
there will be the thought of the Charmer. When 
I shut my eyes, Auberle, I can see the Charmer 
looking like an angel when she found Benje and 
me in the snow, or when she lay back on the lounge 
and talked to Gran. The poor Charmer !” 

What would Richard have said to see the Charmer 
at that minute sitting in an opera-box — a charmer 
all blue satin and swan’s-down — with Mrs. Tillman 
at her side, very proud of the Charmer whom she 
called her daughter, and whose lowly origin she 
sedulously concealed? 

Mrs. Tillman’s lawyer said to her, 
u Either legally adopt that girl, settle something 
on her in your will, provide for her or teach her 
a business. You are cruel to her. You make no 
provision for her future ; you do not teach her to 
provide for herself. She is kept as the mere pet 
of your idleness, dependent on your bounty.” 

“ Don’t talk to me of wills and such grizzly 
things, and speak as if I were going to die !” cried 
Mrs. Tillman. “ I’ll live as long as Elsie does. 
Besides, I shall marry her to some rich man.” 
The lawyer shook his head : 


A STUDENTS’ PARADISE. 


207 


“ The rich man will begin to ask about her fam- 
ily and her fortune ; and when he knows that she 
is a penniless girl once in a show, he will, like the 
priest and the Levite of the parable, pass by on 
the other side.” 

“What about the priest and the Levite?” said 
Mrs. Tillman. “ Perhaps, if they passed a pretty 
girl by, it was not for her want of fortune, but be- 
cause their Church did not allow them to marry.” 

The lawyer’s little allusion had failed and this 
irritated him. He said testily, 

“ You are bringing up the girl neither for this 
world nor for the next. You are not seeiug to it 
that she is assured of the clothes and the bread that 
she will need in this mortal state, and you are keep- 
ing her in a round of idle, silly amusements, whirl- 
ing her from opera to theatre, from theatre to card- 
table, from that to the ball-room, and so on. It is 
nothing but dress, dance, read novels, flirt and fool 
from morning until night. The girl is a good 
girl, sensible, kind and frank ; if she had a half a 
chance, she would be a really useful woman. The 
extreme you keep her in in May Fair is about as 
disastrous in its outcome as the Rag Fair you found 
her in. They are equally out of the road to heaven.” 

“ Oh, you horrid man ! If you’d only go near 
the East End and take one look at the dreadful 
old ragged women — ” 

“And if you’d only go up to Madame Tussaud’s 


208 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


and see that wax of 1 An Old Belle ’ talking to Vol- 
taire, you’d see what gaudy, leering, unvenerable 
age women reared as you prefer come to. A god- 
less old woman is — a horror!” 

“ That !” shrieked Mrs. Tillman, who remem- 
bered the figure. “ Why, we never allow ourselves 
to look like that. We have new teeth made, to look 
like real.” 

“ The inane vain selfishness is there, teeth or no 
teeth. If you look a little better in these days, 
thank the dentist,” said the lawyer. “ I tell you it 
is all wrong. You are starving mind and heart 
and soul ; the East End devotes itself chiefly to 
starving the body. In each case the result is — 
wreck. Well, I’ve said my say. You are not do- 
ing a fair thing by this girl you have adopted.” 

But, while Elsie was thus the plaything of a 
great lady, Elizabeth was slavey for a “ decayed 
lady” and Richard went to be factotum for four 
poor students. That first summer he worked so 
well at his books under his zealous tutors that when 
he went in the fall to take his examinations he 
entered as fresh man on the rolls of King’s College. 
That summer he had saved every penny of his 
earnings, so that he could be decently clad when 
he went to be examined, and great was his pride 
when he showed himself to Mr. and Mrs. Maypinn, 
Benje and Auberle. He was dressed in a new pep- 
per-and-salt suit, a white bosom-shirt, collar and 


A STUDENTS’ PARADISE. 


209 


cuffs, a new blue necktie and a new felt hat. Jacob 
made him a pair of shoes and gave him his blessing. 
Mrs. Mary Anne openly wept, and Auberle concealed 
his gratulation by raving against the West End. 

Indeed, Richard — a stalwart fellow with eyes full 
of intelligence and a strong face refined by intellect- 
ual labor — was a lad good to look upon, and Benje 
inquired, 

“ Why didn’t Richard always have good clothes ? 
Why don’t all the boys have good clothes ? Why 
do so many boys Richard’s size stand about the 
streets, and be all dirt and all rags and toes out 
of their shoes, and have no hats, and get drunk ? 
Why?” 

“ Because,” cried Auberle, angrily, “ these lads 
are all wasted capital. The land makes small ac- 
count of her sons. Britain is no Cornelia leading 
up her boys and saying, ( These are my jewels.’ She 
says, ‘ Go to the dogs ; there are too many of you.’ ” 

“ Benje shall not be wasted capital,” said Mrs. 
Mary Anne. 

In truth, Benje was not suffering. He lodged 
with Auberle, who taught him as he had taught 
Richard ; but he found Benje slower, more dreamy, 
more poetic, more philosophic and preferring more 
history and geography and “ nice reading.” Benje 
spent the days at the Maypinn barber-shop, and 
Mrs. Maypinn gave him his meals and did his 
washing and mending. 

14 


210 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ He must pick up pennies here and there run- 
ning errands, holding horses, and so on, to get his 
clothes,” said Auberle. 

“ His clothes won’t cost much,” said Mrs. Mary 
Anne. “ I’ve always a bit of knitting in my hand, 
and I can keep him in stockings, and Jacob provides 
his shoes, and I can get him up most of his vests 
and trowsers out of Maypinn’s worn-outs.” 

And then there was Mr. Ren&. He was poor 
and daily denied himself for dozens of pensioners in 
the squalid hamlets w T here he labored, but he man- 
aged, by pinching himself a little more, to give Benje 
no^y a hat, and now a coat. 

At the lodging-house the work of Richard was 
much like the work of Elizabeth. The students 
had shabbily furnished a sitting-room and two bed- 
rooms. These Richard kept in order, blacked the 
shoes, ran the errands, did the buying, set tables and 
waited on them, ran to the door, and down in the 
basement cooked the meals and did the washing. 
In all these tasks he kept his books near him, and 
studied with all his might. To his regular studies 
for King’s College examinations he added contin- 
uous work ou The Human Body. “You can’t 
know anatomy too well,” said his four mentors. 
Richard made his clothes- washing a help in his 
studies, as before-time he had made the barber-work 
a help. He washed socks and recited the bones of 
the foot — tarsus, metatarsus, astragalus, os calcis, 


A STUDENTS’ PARADISE . 


211 


scaphoid, phalanges, hallux — and expounded unto 
himself relative positions and uses. He washed 
undershirts, and while he rubbed and wrung at 
sleeves he chanted the names of muscles of the arm 
and shoulders — trapezius, rhomboideus, levator-an- 
guli, scapulae, subclavius, biceps, brachiali anticus, 
triceps anconeus. He made the suds fly around a 
pair of drawers, and on he went — psoas, iliacus, 
pectineus, adductor longis, brevis, magnus, quadra- 
tus femoris. Well, it was as queer a washing-song 
as ever was sung. Sometimes Mistress F riller, who 
had the basement and kept the stairs clean (nomi- 
nally) and made shirts, found a chance “ to get a 
few reasonable words out o’ the chap.” She learned 
how he had once lived in No Thoroughfare, and she 
told him how a lovely yellow-headed girl in velvet 
and silk had come inquiring for Gran and Elizabeth, 
and how she had told her they were all dead of the 
fever. 

“ It was just as well,” said Richard, angrily. 
“ None of us are dead, but she don’t deserve to see 
any of us. If ever I see her, I’ll give her a piece 
of my mind, so I will.” 

For by this time Richard cherished hard thoughts 
of the Charmer, and concluded that she had run 
away from them as scorning and loathing the pov- 
erty she shared, and that she had cast herself away 
for her own vanity and folly. 


CHAPTER XII. 

BETTY AND THE CHARMER. 


ND now the passing days had brought Richard 



-Ta_ to triumphant examinations for his second 
collegiate year, and Elizabeth to that white bed in 
the hospital, and Betty to be seventeen with a baby 
in her arms and a baby in its grave; and the 
Charmer still lived in splendor and was twenty 
years old, and no rich suitor had come to woo. 

In all the circle of people where Mrs. Tillman 
spent her days in trying to kill time the person whom 
the Charmer charmed the most was a young doctor 
just trying to get into practice. He was seen now 
and then in the gay resorts where Mrs. Tillman took 
the lovely Charmer. He came because he had a 
great-aunt who said she “ wanted to show him a 
little decent society sometimes.” If it had not been 
that he saw the Charmer, no doubt he would soon 
have declined this society as unsuited to a poor and 
hard-working practitioner. 

Mrs. Tillman by no means approved of the young 
doctor. 

“ Fergueson has no money, Elsie,” she would say ; 


212 


BETTY AND TEE CHARMER. 


213 


(i he’ll never have any. He never boasts, and he is 
too charitable, and he runs to poor cases who can’t 
pay him a penny. Don’t have anything to do with 
him ; there’ll a rich man come along some day. 
You’ve had enough of being poor. Wait, and you’ll 
ride in your carriage all the rest of your life.” 

Elsie laughed. She knew well how hard it was 
to be poor, but she cousidered that there were cir- 
cumstances in which she could be happy even with- 
out a carriage. For instance, if she had some money 
with which to do good, and could go back by times 
to the East End, and could help the poor and dying 
there, could give them sympathy, aid, work. But 
Mrs. Tillman would not allow her protegee even to 
mention such things, much less to do them. 

There was a day when Mrs. Tillman’s carriage, 
rolling along Holborn, going from St. Paul’s Church- 
yard back to Belgravia, was stopped in a press of 
vehicles, and Elsie saw near the wheels a faded, thin, 
bent girl looking thirty, and yet also looking like 
the seventeen-year-old child that she was. Pale, 
miserably clad, hugging a babe under her poor shawl, 
a few flowers held up in her shriveled hand, she 
turned her hopeless eyes toward the Charmer. It 
was Betty. 

Elsie had never heard of Betty, but her heart 
owned this helpless East-End sister. She reached 
for the few flowers, and gave Betty in their stead all 
the money which she had — a ten-shilling gold-piece. 


214 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


Mrs. Tillman was never very liberal to her protegee 
in the way of money ; it was seldom that Elsie had 
a pound. She sweetened this gift with a smile as 
the carriage rolled on. 

Mrs. Tillman angrily tossed out the poor flowers : 

“ Elsie, why will you do so ? If you want flowers, 
get them at a florist’s at the West End. Very likely 
these wretched things had fever or cholera or small- 
pox in them. Who knows what dens they came 
from ?” 

“ I know,” said Elsie, sadly. She re r membered ! 

The ten shillings seemed a godsend to poor Betty. 
She and Harry had such bad luck ! Harry’s bar- 
row had been knocked over by a runaway team, and 
his stock spoiled. The utter loss of a day’s stock 
is so much to a poor coster ! And Harry had had 
lung-fever from being out wet day after day, and 
had been in hospital, and Betty and the baby had 
nearly starved flower-selling. And now Harry was 
back from hospital, but how could he refill his bar- 
row? This gold-piece brought them hope again. 
The weather was better; the trade grew better. 
People wanted radishes and spring onions and rhu- 
barb, and later they patronized berries and cherries, 
and other things that Harry cried. Harry was 
sober, and he was kind to Betty, as he had vowed 
he would be. The poor young pair clung together 
and loved each other, and tried to comfort each 
other in their dismal attic-room, where light and food 


BETTY AND THE CHARMER. 


215 


and fuel were insufficient, and where the yearly baby 
yearly faded before their eyes into the pauper baby’s 
grave. It was better so, of course ; what could the 
babies have lived for ? As Benje would ask, “ Why 
should they live to suffer, and to know only the 
sinning side of earth ?” But Harry and Betty loved 
these poor little skeleton babies which Betty brought 
home from the lying-in hospital, and they grieved 
to see them die. 

So another year went on after the day of the 
gold-piece ; it was another baby now that whined 
in Betty’s thin arms. By this time the Charmer 
was still unmarried, still very merry, with little 
reserves of sorrowful memories and yearnings for 
a chance to help where help was needed. And 
Richard surpassed himself and the wildest hopes 
of his friends by taking his sophomore, and junior 
examinations in one year and doing well. 

Now a word must be said about London — Lon- 
don, the city, the ancient corporation, the sacred 
circle of the Bank, the Exchange, Guildhall, the 
Mansion-House, Bow Church ; London proper, with 
its six and twenty wards ; London, where the street- 
car does not intrude upon the ancient monopoly of 
the omnibus. 

London of banks, business and beggary is gov- 
erned by a board of aldermen, and by a lord mayor 
chosen by that body out of themselves, generally on 
the principle of seniority ; but the greater London 


216 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


that surrounds this — the vast outlying parishes 
which, crystallized about London proper, make up 
that mighty capital, “ the political, moral, physical, 
intellectual, artistic, literary, commercial and social 
centre of the world” — is, among other things, a 
very curious specimen of civic government. Those 
vast parishes which in their expansion about the 
city have coalesced and become one metropolis were 
suburban villages of mediaeval times, each centred in 
its parish church or cathedral in days when parish 
priest and his clerks or bishop and his chapter were 
lords temporal as well as lords spiritual, and when 
the Church made and administered the laws of the 
community. It results from this that the govern- 
ment of each several parish is in the vestry of the 
parish, and great London has no unified, equalized, 
homologated system of city government. Taxation, 
appropriation, municipal laws, sanitary regulations 
and general administration of parish economy are 
not uniform throughout great London : each parish 
largely manages, makes or mars for itself ; and thus, 
as in many other regards, London is the world’s epit- 
ome. The various parishes are the various nations 
of the world. Each one for itself makes its laws, 
and holds its boundaries, and rules its inhabitants, 
and maintains its courts, and chastises its offenders. 

Now, parish limits are much like the boundaries 
of countries : they are lines passed over unawares ; 
and a man may wander well into a parish before he 


BETTY AND THE CHARMER. 


217 


knows it. Also, the unlearned and ignorant who do 
not read the daily papers and cannot spend their 
time investigating and recording the changeful ways 
and whims of parishes may come into a parish and 
may transgress some of its laws all unconsciously, 
and a man may become a culprit while he proposes 
to be, and fully supposes that he is, a law-abiding 
citizen. Now, when one becomes a culprit, it is 
often very easy to proceed and be a criminal. There 
is in these affairs a momentum which carries the 
human creature whither he never intended to go. 

It happens that there is a parish in London where 
a costermonger has been pronounced a nuisance and 
a vagabond. A man with a barrow, a hawker 
shrieking his wares, is an abomination in the nostrils 
of the vestry of this parish, and they cannot away 
with him. Now, this word “ vestry,” used of a 
London parish, refers rather to the present authority 
in municipal or parish temporalities than to the 
church officers administering for their church, and 
the vestryman in the United States has neither the 
office, duties, position, powers nor difficulties of the 
member of a London parish vestry. 

This parish just referred to had made new laws 
for itself in regard to barrows and their owners. 
Other parishes regarded the coster as a convenience, 
a necessity, an annoyance to be endured with urbanity ; 
this parish declared him a nuisance to be abated. 
Across the coufines of this parish, on a raw Novem- 


218 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


ber Saturday night, Harry wheeled his barrow and 
cried with might and main cauliflower and Brussels 
sprouts, cabbages and turnips. That barrow sold 
out, Harry would take home a bit of beef and one 
of his cabbages, a loaf, a little bag of coals, an ounce 
of tea and some sugar for Betty, who was poorly ; 
and he might perhaps indulge in a couple of yards 
of warm flannel to make the baby more comfortable. 
Harry had been lucky that day : he had sold out 
one barrow nearer home, and he had paid his rent, 
and he and Betty had had a pea-soup dinner at a 
stall. 

But just as Harry was dispensing cabbages, along 
came somebody clothed in a little brief authority 
and bade him begone ; he should not sell from a 
barrow in that street, nor yet in that parish. At 
this interference Harry’s blood rose up. To what 
end had he paid a heavy price for a coster’s license 
if he must be restrained in the privilege of selling? 
He had never heard the like before. Law was 
surely on his side, thought poor Harry ; so he re- 
marked that the intermeddler might go about his 
business, and he lifted a lusty shout of “ Cab-aaages ! 
Cab-aaages !” In another minute his enemy caught 
hold of his barrow, whirled it toward the middle of 
the street and overturned it, and under the feet of 
the crowding teams rolled and were ruined Harry’s 
vegetables. 

Pell mell sprang the bystanders into the m&Ue, some 


BETTY AND THE CHARMER. 


219 


for the parish, some for Harry. Boys rescued turnips 
and cauliflower from the roadway and fled amain. 
People cried, “ Shame on the parish !” Others cried, 
u Down with the coster !” Over went the barrow, 
and was speedily broken to kindling-wood; over 
went two parish officers under the fists of the raging 
Harry. Then was Harry overpowered by numbers 
and carried off to prison, and all night long, cold 
and hungry, Betty and the baby cried for him. It 
was Sunday night before Betty heard what had 
become of him. 

Early on Monday morning poor Betty went to 
court, and her Harry, dazed and utterly overwhelmed 
at the wreck of all his fortunes, was brought up and 
sentenced to a month’s imprisonment for assaulting 
officials. Harry and Betty were not allowed even 
to say “ Good-bye ” to each other. This coster- 
monger was regarded as such a very daugerous fel- 
low ! The wretched pair could only look their 
anguish at each other across the court-room, and 
Betty, with a flood of tears, held up her miserable 
little baby. 

Before the month of imprisonment was out, some 
other prisoner who was brought in informed Harry 
that Betty was in a wretched state of poverty, and 
that the baby was going to die. Harry, at this, sat 
down and hid his face, and great sobs shook his 
frame. He exclaimed against the cruelty of laws 
which had defrauded him of his right to labor for his 


220 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


family. A jailer coming by with angry and taunt- 
ing words was told the case of Harry’s child, but, 
being a brutal man with no consideration for others, 
retorted that “ it had better die; the world was well 
rid of such brats.” 

Harry, blind with rage and heart-pain, hit out 
with the first thing that came to his hand ; it chanced 
to be a big iron bolt, and the jailer fell senseless 
with a broken skull. He lay at the point of death 
for a month. Harry was then tried for “ assault 
with intent to kill,” and was given three years in 
the penitentiary — a very merciful sentence, they told 
him ! 

When Betty, her child perishing with weakness, 
and herself gaunt with hunger and now shelterless 
on the verge of winter — for her landlord had ejected 
her for rent — heard this, her last feeble powers of 
mental and physical resistance gave way. Yet a 
day or two, fed on scant crumbs of the charity of 
those nearly as poor as herself, she wandered about 
the Tower Hamlets, moaning for her u ’Arry.” 
Then, as the gray, cold, misty night fell and her 
little one wailed plaintively against her empty breast, 
under her scanty shawl, Betty went with staggering, 
almost unconscious steps down to the wide, cold, 
muddy stream that lapped and throbbed and mur- 
mured under the beautiful bridges, among the boats 
and ships, against the strong embankments of the city 
that offered to her no hope and no home. For Betty 


BETTY AND THE CHARMER. 


221 


and her little one there was neither bread nor shelter 
in the world of London. 

It was in these cold November days, when bread 
was dear and work was scarce — so scarce that thou- 
sands of workingmen were unemployed and wages 
were low, while rents and fuel were unusually high 
— that riots rose in London. There were mobs. 
Hungry, ragged and dirty mobs they were, almost 
preternaturally quiet, and asking only for labor and 
for bread. They marched up and down the streets, 
gathered in the squares, eyed the emblazoned coaches, 
the magnificently decorated club-houses, the shops 
crowded with articles of luxury and ornament, the 
splendid mansions of the rich. No violence was at- 
tempted. The Saxon heart is slow to rouse to icon- 
oclastic outrages ; the oppressed and indignant spirit 
burns and writhes, and years or generations pass be- 
fore the hand of fury is lifted against the temples 
of folly and selfish pride. And by his patient wait- 
ing, by being strong to suffer, the Saxon commoner 
arrives betimes at a bloodless conquest and receives 
the victor — perhaps the martyr — crown of him who 
endureth. 

One day, as such a crowd of brooding discontent, 
yet restrained by the inborn regard for honesty and 
order, surged through the Strand, Richard, coming 
down that way, interested, sympathizing, recognizing 
some faces, entered the throng and marched with 
them, listening to the low- voiced complaints on every 


222 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


side — complaints of loss of work, ejections for rent, 
homelessness, sickness, enforced separation of desti- 
tute families. 

Richard was now shot up to his full height — a 
great broad-shouldered, large-headed, keen-faced 
fellow. As he moved on with his East-End breth- 
ren, wondering how with justice to all England’s 
problem of poverty was ever to be solved, he saw 
that an open landau had come from Waterloo Bridge 
and was entangled in the throng, so that it moved 
slowly, with the mass of malcontents pressing it on 
every side. On the box of this carriage sat coach- 
man and footman in livery. On the plush cushions 
sat, alone, a young and lovely woman in a white 
hat with a white plume, a white fur coat, a fluff of 
yellow hair, blue eyes that looked with gentle inter- 
est on the rough faces all about her. After long 
days, the Charmer ! 

Richard was a youth of strong purposes and of 
fixed opinions ; he had nourished wrath as well as 
sorrow for the Charmer. He sprang with one bound 
upon the steps of the landau. He held fast by the 
door, and, bending over it, to the astonished girl 
poured forth hot words of remonstrant anger : 

“ I have found you at last ! You ran away from 
us who loved and respected you ; you ran away from 
hard but honest work ; you have put to shame the 
good old Gran and poor little Elizabeth, who had 
only you for sister and mother and friend ! Don’t 


BETTY AND THE CHARMER. 


223 


you know me ? I am Richard ! I thought you 
were an angel of light ; I never dreamed you could 
be tempted away to choose evil rather than good, to 
disgrace — ” 

“ Richard, Richard ! It is Richard ! Stop ! You 
shall not speak so. How dare you think evil of me? 
I have looked for you all ; I did not desert you. 
"When I found that Gran and dear little Elizabeth 
were dead — ” 

“ They’re not dead. You may want to believe 
it for an excuse. They are not dead.” 

“ Richard ! Then where is my Elizabeth? Quick !” 

“ I don’t know, and I would not tell you if I 
knew.” 

But by this time a couple of mounted police, see- 
ing one of the marchers upon the steps of a carriage, 
leaning over the door and soundly rating a lovely 
young lady, had pushed their way to the rescue. 
They seized Richard, one by each shoulder, and 
dragged him upon the ground. 

At that instant the mob had reached Charing 
Cross, and the width of the way gave the terrified 
coachman room to hasten his speed. He whipped 
up Mrs. Tillman’s grays, and Elsie, in vain looking 
back for Richard, was whirled toward the safer 
precincts of Belgravia. 

Richard, thrown upon the ground, was somewhat 
bruised before lie recovered his feet. Then the 
crowd opened for him, and, glad to escape arrest, he 


224 


BAG FATE AND MAY FAIR. 


hastened down to the Thames Embankment, and so 
eastward, until he reached London Bridge. His 
heart was still hot with anger, suspicion and ancient 
memories roused by the apparition of the Charmer. 
He went out upon London Bridge and stood in one 
of the little niches looking down into the Thames. 
He was near the Middlesex shore, and as he looked 
at the swiftly out-running tide suddenly he seemed 
dimly to see something under the water. The fast- 
receding stream — traitor to that which in it had 
sought shelter and hiding — slipped away, and 
through the faithless river was seen a something 
lying in the ooze of the bank. Away, away fell the 
muddy veil of the waters, hurrying toward the sea, 
and through them came out clearly a woman’s pros- 
trate form. A tangle of wet hair which lit with a 
ruddy gleam as the afternoon sun smote it, a ghastly 
face with open eyes, a ragged gown which quivered 
as the unkindly current ebbed away, slender feet 
crossed upon the black slime, the shoes having been 
lost from them while this figure had tossed and 
rolled, the sport of the flood in death, as of misfor- 
tune in life ; something clutched fast by lean arms 
to a bosom taking the first calm rest of its nineteen 
years. 

Others also had seen this bit of London wreck- 
age ; many leaned over the parapet. A boat of the 
river-police rowed fast toward the spot. But one 
of the river “ birds o’ prey ” rowed faster still, and 


BETTY AND THE CHARMER. 


225 


cut in before the more ponderous police-boat, and 
laid hands on the body, now quite uncovered by 
the water and lying on its bed of black mud. 

“ I found it ! The pay’s due me — double pay. 
Here’s two of ’em. There’s a baby in her arms, 
held fast through it all, poor thing ! Two ! I found 
two.” 

But Bichard had run down in long leaps from 
the bridge and was ankle-deep in the mud now, and 
great tears were rolling over his face as he recog- 
nized in this poor dead creature the hungry, patient, 
self-sacrificing guest of his childhood with whom 
his bread had been shared — the uncomplaining lit- 
tle slave of ill-paid toil, the premature wife and 
woman, the girl denied of all things which girl- 
hearts crave, the daughter of the East End who 
had known neither childhood nor girlhood, heiress 
of nineteen years of cold, toil, pain, famine, sorrow, 
disappointment, homelessness, hopelessness — Betty ! 

Is this the executorship of the Church for the 
wards it holds for the Christ? 

15 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THROUGH EVIL DAYS. 

HEN Richard was nineteen, he had taken all 



his examinations in the course in arts, and 
had entered the medical school connected with 
King’s College. This school has associated with 
it the King’s College Hospital, in Portugal street, 
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where twenty-one thousand 
poor patients yearly receive assistance. 

No student among the many who thronged the 
lecture-rooms of the school and the wards of the 
hospital was more enthusiastic in study than Rich- 
ard, none was better prepared to receive instruction 
in medicine, none was more desperately poor, none 
lived in greater daily straits. 

About the time when Richard entered upon his 
medical course his attention was especially devoted 
to the diseases of the eye. Every leisure moment 
which he had he spent in reading treatises on the 
eye and the works of great oculists. For at this 
time Richard was again living with Auberle, and 
Auberle was becoming blind. 

One by one the four students who were Richard’s 
first patrons had completed their scholastic studies 


226 


THROUGH EVIL HAYS. 


227 


and received their degree, and all had gone their 
several ways. Andrew Garvin was practicing in 
Edinburgh, another was studying in Germany, a 
third was a medical missionary, a fourth had sought 
fortune in Australia. Two others who had taken 
in the lodging-house the places of the first depart- 
ures had also gone from London — one to Leeds, 
and one to Birmingham. Thus the students’ club 
which Bichard served was broken up, and Richard 
went back to the room in Bethnal Green where 
lived Auberle and Benje. He had not been there 
long when he perceived that a cloud was coming 
over Auberle’s sight. As darkness thickened about 
the weaver, and as the loom which poor trade had 
so often kept idle became idle altogether, he gave up 
the room where he had lived so long, and with the 
boys moved into the densely-crowded district near 
Drury Lane. There he and the brothers shared an 
attic, and Auberle became one of the street-venders 
of toys, odd notions and fantastic trifles sold for a 
penny or two along the sidewalks of Cheapside, 
Holborn and Oxford streets and the Strand. Part- 
ly to increase the small gains which would not suf- 
fice to keep him from semi-starvation, and partly to 
relieve the intense feeling of degradation which the 
weaver experienced at becoming a peddler of small 
wares, Richard proposed that he, Auberle and Benje 
should open a night-school, instructing pupils of any 
age at from one to threepence weekly. The attic 


228 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


was large, aud it was soon filled with evening 
pupils. Parents, finding that for the penny or 
twopence weekly required by the board school 
their children were equally well taught and had 
the advantage of being able to work during the day 
and earn something, or could take care of the fam- 
ily babies while the mother went out washing, char- 
ing or flower-selling, sent their boys to the night- 
school instead of the board school. A number of 
'prentice-lads and young workmen, finding that 
Richard could give instruction in French, book- 
keeping, chemistry, history, aud other advanced 
branches, came to be his pupils. 

Although very nearly blind, Auberle could teach 
reading and arithmetic, and so from four in the after- 
noon until ten at night the attic had more or fewer 
pupils. Earlier in the day Benje was errand-boy 
for a green-grocer, and Richard supplemented his 
small gains from the night-school by keeping the 
books for various little shops in Drury Lane and 
Fetter Lane. 

Between Richard and Mr. Rene, Benje's educa- 
tion went on ; for Benje had become dear as a son 
to Mr. Rene's soul. With instant care the minister 
had tried to guard the boy from the influence of 
Auberle's unfaith, and the task had not been a dif- 
ficult one. Auberle had found that his creed of ne- 
gations could not satisfy Benje's perpetual “ Why ?" 
Mere denial fell far short of vast regions where 


THROUGH EVIL DAYS. 


229 


Benje divined Eternal Cause, and other regions 
equally vast where his prescient soul discerned im- 
manent and perpetual Consequence. 

“ It is easy to say things are not so, Auberle,” 
Benje would say. “ It only needs about two let- 
ters to deny. Any fool could get out of every 
question, it seems to me, by denyiug everything 
and saying that nothing has any reason. It takes 
wise people to tell us why. Mr. Ren& says we can 
often find out ‘how/ ‘why* almost never, and to 
me people seem wisest who know enough to know 
that they cannot know everything — that the big- 
ness of creation is so very big that there must be 
in it a great deal that they cannot understand, and 
that only some one who made everything knows all 
about everything. And He lets us know as much 
of what he has made and done as we can hold; 
and some of us can hold more, and some can hold 
less. Richard and Mr. Ren& can hold a great deal, 
and Mrs. Maypinn can hold only a little. And as 
we grow we can hold more ffleas ; and if we keep 
growing for ever, we shall come to hold a great 
deal.” 

“ If you say i for ever/ ” said Auberle, “ you 
give us a fair chance of knowing everything there 
is as we go on.” 

“Not quite, Auberle,” said Benje, “for, you 
know, God has had that part of for ever that lies 
behind us to be doing and making wonders in, and 


230 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


all the for ever that lies in front of us will be go- 
ing on the same. I read a verse that ‘ we cannot 
by searching find out God ; we cannot find out the 
Almighty to perfection.* Some people find this 
thought of God such a weight to them that they 
try to get rid of it by saying that there is no God 
at all. But that don’t make it so. And, though 
you say it, Auberle, I believe — deep down in your 
heart — you feel sure that what you say isn’t so.” 

“ I believe, Benje,” said Auberle, uneasily, “ that 
there is even more in your head than in Richard’s. 
Sometimes you seem to have very large thoughts 
for a boy of your age.” 

“ I don’t ever expect to come up to Richard,” 
said Benje, “ but the things I like to study about 
and think about are wide and have God in them. 
I’ve talked to Mr. Rene, and — We don’t know 
how I’ll manage it, but I want to go through col- 
lege, and then up into Scotland to a great school 
where they study about God. ‘Theology,’ they 
call it — the study of God.” 

“ How can you study God — if there is a God ?” 
said Auberle. 

“ We can study God as he has shown himself, 
Mr. Rene says, and he has shown himself in what 
he has made and what he has said. You have 
studied with Richard some of the things he has 
made, and you yourself have said they were so 
curious, and fitted together so well, that there must 


THROUGH EVIL DAYS. 


231 


be a Maker for them. What he has said is in the 
Bible. You’ve never given the Bible a fair chance 
with you, Auberle, but, now that you can’t see to 
read other books, I want you to let me read some 
of that to you every day, and just hear it fair and 
honest as you hear other things.” 

And so in the daily-increasing loneliness of his 
daily-increasing darkness Auberle listened to Ben- 
je’s reading, and, being of a thoughtful mind, he 
pondered these things in his heart. And, while 
the light of the sun in heaven shone ever less 
clearly upon his darkening retina, the light of the 
Sun of righteousness began to send from far off a 
faint ray into his heart, as the first tremulous, un- 
certain beam of dawning comes through the mists 
and clouds exhaled from and enwrapping our lower 
world. 

“ I don’t know but it’s rather good reading to 
think of,” said Auberle to Benje. 

“ Mrs. Maypinn says it is,” said Benje. “ She 
says without it she could hardly get along since 
Mr. Maypinn fell dead and she had to sell out the 
shop and be so poor, and go and live in one room, 
doing sewing and knitting. If it wasn’t for what 
she reads in the Bible, she says, she’d go wild. I 
told her a verse Mr. Bencj has pasted in the cover 
of his Bible: 

‘A comfortable book for those that mourn, 

And good to raise the courage of the poor; 


232 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


It lifts the veil, and shows, beyond the bourne, 

Our Elder Brother in his home secure, 

Which, for us pitiful, he died to win, 

Repeating, “ Come, ye blessed ! enter in.” ’ ” 

“ Mrs. Maypinn and I has hard times of it,” said 
Auberle, picking up his cane and his tray of penny 
toys, and preparing to set forth for Tottenham Court 
Road. “ We both would be worse off if we hadn't 
you, Benje;” and Auberle, as he went down the 
steep, narrow stairs, kept his hand on the shoulder 
of the thirteen-year-old lad. Just as he listened 
always for Benje's returning steps and sweet, clear 
voice, Mrs. Maypinn listened for him to come, often 
with Richard, but sometimes alone, for his Sunday 
afternoon visit to her lonely room. 

About midwinter of that first year at the medical 
school, Richard had made such friends with his in- 
structors that he ventured to ask one skilled as an 
oculist to allow him to bring Auberle to him to 
have his eyes examined. The surgeon offered to 
get Auberle into the ophthalmic hospital, and ad- 
vised his going there for a few months. Thus Rich- 
ard and Benje were left alone, much as they had 
been when Gran died, only they now had Mr. Reneb 

But presently Mr. Ren& was gone from them. 
Mr. Rent's only brother had been long in Australia, 
and was at last returning to England. On the ship 
he was taken very ill, and the doctor advised that 
he should go at once to the South of France ; he 


THROUGH EVIL DAYS. 


233 


went, taking Mr. Ren& with him. Much as Mr. 
Ren& was pained at the thought of leaving those 
poor people among whom for years he had toiled 
and spent his little all, and who, except for him, had 
no comforter, he felt that it was now his duty to go 
and attend upon this his only relative, who was 
very ill, and who seemed also poor and unable to 
secure good hired service. 

When Mr. Renb had left England, Richard and 
Benje, busy as they were with study and work — for 
Richard was a very vigorous tutor to Benje — still 
found some hours to miss their vanished friends. 

“ Don’t you wish we could find the Charmer and 
Elizabeth ?” said Benje to Richard one night. 

“ I don’t ever want to see the Charmer or hear 
of her again,” said Richard, angrily. 

“ But dear little Elizabeth ? Don’t you remem- 
ber Poplar Court, Richard ?” 

Yes, Richard remembered. He wished much to 
find Elizabeth. He had paid another of his far-be- 
tween visits to Gran, and had heard of that call 
which Elizabeth had made when the “ decayed lady” 
gave her that single holiday. Where Elizabeth 
lived Gran could not tell, but Elizabeth had said 
she would come back. After that Richard looked 
much for Elizabeth as he went about the streets. 
During a year he went regularly each month to see 
Gran and to inquire if Elizabeth had returned. 
But no ; Gran had seen and heard no more of the 


234 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


Prodigy. As we know, she had no more holidays, 
and then she went to the hospital. 

By the end of a year Richard grew tired of going 
to Gran and of hearing that monotonous “ No news.” 
He told himself that he had no time for such long 
excursions, no pennies for car- or omnibus-fare, and 
Gran was content and comfortable and did not need 
him. 

Auberle was gone, Mr. Ren& was gone, and now 
winter was gone ; and then everything else went — 
but misery. Benje was taken sick. He was very 
sick. Typhoid fever declared itself in a severe form. 
Richard knew his duty well enough to banish all the 
pupils from the attic where Benje lay scorching, 
tossing, raving, in fever. Both love and knowledge 
conspired to make Richard a good nurse. The 
dispensary doctor was skillful, and from him Rich- 
ard could get most of his medicines. But all his 
little income was gone except some odd sixpences for 
making up a few books as he watched by Benje’s 
bed. 

The spring days were raw and cold. Richard 
must have fuel, and he must have oil to keep a light 
all night. Also he must have soap, so that in the 
narrow hall he could wash changes of clothes and 
sheets for Benje. And he needed food for himself 
in his heavy work as nurse, and fruit, ice and milk 
and beef for beef-tea for this dear sick Benje. 

And oh how near down to death went the be- 


THROUGH EVIL DAYS. 


235 


loved Benje ! There were hours when Richard felt 
as if each moment would snatch from him the little 
brother whom he had loved and nursed and cared 
for since Benje was a tiny baby unable to walk and 
Richard was a little faithful nurse staggering about 
under that baby’s weight. Neither of them had 
ever known anything of home or of parents or 
relatives except their dishonorable Gran so unlike 
the Charmer’s — their Gran who lay in their attic 
and drank gin. 

There were days and weeks of this watching, 
nursing, fearing, hoping, praying, before danger was 
passed; and then Benje was such a white skeleton 
of a boy, scarcely conscious, weak as a new-born 
babe and needing so much delicate nourishment. 

“ Feed him ! feed him !” said the dispensary 
doctor. “ Fine bread, chicken-soup, jellies. Nour- 
ish him ! That is all that will bring him round.” 

So the doctor came no more — he had not come 
very often at best — and he did not inquire where 
Richard would get the food needed for Benje. 

Richard looked about the attic and asked him- 
self, and had no answer ready. He could not bring 
back the pupils, for poor Benje was so weak that 
the least noise in the room threw him into a faint 
or a high fever and threatened him with a relapse. 
Richard had sold everything from the room except 
the bed on which Benje lay, the bedclothes, a chair, 
a little table and three or four dishes. These be- 


236 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


longed to Auberle, and no poverty had ever forced 
him to part with the three pieces of furniture : they 
had been the property of the poor girl whom he had 
loved. 

These things, then, our Richard could not sell, 
and yet Benje must be fed. Poor Benje ! he did 
not know that, as he had a roll and a penny pat of 
butter, or a penny glass of milk and an egg that 
cost three halfpence, he was living on Richard’s 
beloved, needed, hardly-earned books. 

Benje ate up all the books ; he got better. And 
Richard earned his own food by any hard jobs he 
could pick up in Drury Lane, and still Benje got 
better, and had chicken and chop and steak and 
baked potato. Being scarcely fourteen, and ill at 
that, and hungry, and in the dolce far niente of 
convalescence, he did not realize that in these lux- 
uries Richard’s coat, shirts, shoes, hat — all Rich- 
ard’s clothes — vanished, until Richard possessed for 
worldly all nothing but a faded flannel shirt and a 
pair of ragged trousers. He paid the rent by teach- 
ing three or four lads evenings now, but spring was 
passing, and former pupils were otherwise occupied 
in work or pleasure in the long mild evenings. 

It was in these days of watching by Benje that 
Richard learned to pray. All human friends had 
failed him ; he had failed to himself so far as po- 
tency to help was concerned. That dear profession 
which had seemed to him to hold in its might the 


THROUGH EVIL DAYS. 


237 


keys of life and death had proved feeble. The 
terrible loneliness of a life bereaved of Benje had 
risen up before him. In those hours of agony all 
that Mr. Rene had taught him, all that he had been 
learning from the Bible and from Christian men 
with whom he had been brought into contact, sud- 
denly crystallized about the idea of the willing and 
consoling Christ — the Brother born for adversity. 
Into the solitude and anguish of his spirit fell a 
voice: “Come unto me.” Richard did not need 
to say, “ Who art thou ?” It came to him clearly 
as to Saul on the road to Damascus that this was 
the Son of the Blessed. 

What a wonder all at once to speak out in the 
darkness and silence, and to know that his words 
entered a listening ear ! What a wonder, there in 
the dark places of the earth, to have assured audi- 
ence with Heaven ! What a wonder to be able to 
spread all his wants, his fears for Benje, his needs, 
his great longing for the boy’s recovery, before God ! 
What a wonder of wonders to know assuredly that 
his voice had entered into the ear of the Most High 
and touched the heart of infinite Pity, and that some 
subtle chain of communication had been found be- 
tween Heaven and earth and there had been answer ! 
There had been no miracle — he had not asked nor 
expected miracle — but the way of death had become 
the way of life ; the forces of Nature, disintegrating 
in Benje, were reintegrating. No raven had been 


238 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


sent to feed them, no hand had reached out of heav- 
en, but they had been fed. And now all seemed 
gone but what was best of all, the power of God ; 
and Richard was waiting. 

Of course, in all these weeks, Richard had not 
been at his classes, and his professors had missed 
him. At last one of them found out where he 
lived, and came to see him. Benje was propped 
up in the one chair, was wrapped in the one quilt 
and was sucking an orange. Richard, sitting on 
the floor by the window, was teaching two lads 
arithmetic, and had between his knees a small boy 
who was learning to read. He rose and flushed 
when his professor came in, and he offered him a 
seat on the side of the bed. Then came questions 
as to his absence from lectures and a very succinct 
and clear account of Benje’s case. 

“At least, I’ve learned how to nurse a case of 
typhoid fever,” said Richard. 

Meanwhile, the keen eyes of the professor trav- 
ersed the poverty of the attic, the half-clad, lean 
form of Richard : 

“ Well, now you can leave the boy, and you are 
losing a great deal. You will hardly make up these 
lectures if you stay out much longer.” 

Richard grew crimson. He could not go back to 
his classes barefooted and coatless and hatless, with 
ragged trousers and a shrunken, faded shirt. He 
hesitated. 


THROUGH EVIL DAYS. 


239 


At last Benje understood. 

“ Richard,” he said, “ I want some water. Get 
me some water. Go clear to the corner, won’t you, 
to the drinking-fountain? I’m so thirsty and so 
warm, Richard!” 

When Richard was gone, Benje broke forth : 

“ Oh, I didn’t know till now, but now I see. 
Don’t you see, sir ? I have had so many things ! 
He is so good to me ! And I did not know ! But 
I’ve eaten up all his books, and all his clothes and 
his shoes, and all his things.” 

“ You are quite a cormorant,” said the professor ; 
and he laughed. 

Then, when the cup of water was brought, 

“ Richard, where are the pawn-tickets for your 
books ?” 

Richard’s face glowed with shame as he took 
the tickets from a paper box on the shelf. 

“ Do not be ashamed,” said his professor ; “ I 
am proud of these tickets. Let us shake hands. 
To-morrow I expect to see you in the lecture- 
rooms.” 

Away went the professor, and Richard recom- 
menced teaching two big lads arithmetic and a little 
lad reading. 

Then, shortly, up stairs came the pawnbroker’s 
boy with an armful of Richard’s books. Soon 
after him came a lad with a sack of coal and half a 
peck of potatoes ; next came the grocer’s clerk with a 


240 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


basket filled with bread, cheese, jam, tea, sugar, but- 
ter, ham. But even yet the procession of “ Greeks 
bearing gifts” had not closed. Here came a pair 
of shoes, a bundle with socks and shirts, and then 
a tailor’s ’prentice with a suit of clothes and a hat, 
and with the advice to “ come change ’em if they 
don’t fit.” 

By this time lessons were impossible, and the 
pupils were each treated to a roll and jam, and 
were dismissed. 

“ Oh,” cried Benje, “ I’m so glad I’m not dead ! 
A little bit ago I thought it was a pity I’d stayed 
alive ; now I’m glad I’m here. Bichard, isn’t your 
professor a good man !” 

Yes, Bichard had known the professor’s reputa- 
tion of old : he lived only to do good. Devoted to 
his teaching, liberal in practicing among those too 
poor to pay, he lived plainly, almost solitary, and 
gave the major part of his moderate income in 
charity. 

A week later the professor came back to see the 
brothers : 

“This little chap needs to go into the country. 
There’s the card of a good widow who will mother 
him for a month ; take him down there to-morrow, 
and be back Monday. After the month we will 
think of something else for him. Bichard, I want 
you for my assistant. There’s a little room off my 
office where you can put your bed, table, chair and 


THROUGH EVIL DAYS. 


241 


books. You can attend to my office while I am 
out, and you will learn as much from me outside 
the lecture-rooms as you learn in the classes, and 
so make double acquisitions. I’ll give you your 
living, and six shillings a week at first.” 

Monday evening found Richard snugly estab- 
lished in the doctor’s office, getting paid for using 
such an opportunity as many would have given a 
high premium to share. 

Richard hastened to see Auberle and tell him of 
his good fortune. Almost total darkness had fallen 
over Auberle’s vision. 

“ They tell me that in two or three years there 
may possibly be help for me in an operation,” said 
Auberle ; “ I’ll look to you to perform it, Richard. 
Study the eye. It seems to me that there are more 
blind and more sore-eyed people — especially poor 
children — in London than in any other civilized 
city in the world. Like Benje, I ask, ‘Why?’” 

“And I answer,” said Richard, “that there are 
elderly blind people whose eyes were deliberately 
put out in their childhood that they might be bet- 
ter and more successful beggars. There are many 
women and children whose eyes have been destroyed 
by blows, for there is little protection in England 
for women and children from the brutality of 
drunken or ugly husbands and fathers. And then 
the foggy air, the damp, ill-ventilated, overcrowded 
living-rooms, dens — not homes — poor food, too lit- 
is 


242 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


tie fire, constant dirt, faces and eyes unwashed for 
weeks, — these are the causes of the prevalence of 
diseases of the eye.” 

Could Richard weary of the study of that pellu- 
cid chamber, the microcosm of the visible creation ? 
As years went by, more and more reverently, yet 
with more and more serene courage, would he en- 
ter with knowledge and experience that wonderful 
crystal tabernacle wherein is comprehended and ab- 
breviated the architecture of the universe. Pursu- 
ing these mysteries feebly and afar off, but sincerely, 
he followed Him after whom the son of Bartimeus 
cried entreating for the divine gift of sight. 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE. 

W HAT should he do with Benje when the month 
in the country had passed and Benje was again 
strong and well? Eichard foolishly lay awake at 
night discussing this question. We mortals often 
waste our forces wondering how we shall meet 
emergencies which never occur, and how we shal 
provide where Heaven has already richly pro- 
vided. 

Mr. Een& came back. Through Auberle he 
learned Eichard ’s address; and when Eichard was 
busy with his books in the office of his good pa- 
tron, in came Mr. Een&. 

“ My brother is dead,” said Mr. Eene*. “ I sup- 
posed that he was very poor, but it seems that he 
had considerable property, and he left it all to me. 
I shall live among my destitute people just the 
same. Now I can carry out some plans for them 
— plans of cheaper and better homes, plans of a 
cheerful meeting-place for evenings which shall 
rival the public-house. And plans for Benje: 
I want Benje.” Then, seeing Eichard’s look of 

243 


244 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


anguish and consternation : “ Not to take him 

away from you, Richard ; I only want to provide 
for him, to send him through college and his course 
in theology. I cannot use better for my Master 
some of the wealth of which he has made me stew- 
ard than by equipping Benje for his life’s work. 
Let us share Benje.” 

So suddenly wide horizons opened for Benje. 

“I think,” said Mr. Rene, “ we ought to find 
out what is your surname. You have stood here- 
tofore on college-rolls as Richards; let us see if 
Jacob knows anything more about you.” 

But Jacob knew nothing : 

“ The old woman told me her name, but I never 
laid it in mind. She was a bad old ’un, and I never 
considered that her name was yours or that you 
boys belonged to her. There was something wrong 
about it that I couldn’t get to the bottom of. She 
got drunk, but she never talked, drunk or sober. 
You, Richard, was less than seven, I should say, 
and Benje couldn’t stand alone, and you had bet- 
ter clothes and better ways and better books than 
the children down in the Hamlets. The old wo- 
man had a store of money; I don’t know how 
much. It was gone— just — when she went. And 
she had made some kind of an oath about only 
drinking one bottle of gin a day. Limiting her- 
self like that was, I think, the only thing of which 
the old sinner ever repented. No, Richard, I can’t 


THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE. 


245 


tell you anything about your name ; you’ll have to 
make a name.” 

" Very well,” said Richard; "then I’ll be Rich- 
ard Richards till the end of the chapter, and my 
brother shall be Benjamin Richards. I’m glad 
it is likely that I never had any kinship to that 
terrible old woman.” 

"It is evident to me that you and Benje came 
of some stock accustomed for more or less genera- 
tions to study,” said Mr. Ren&, " for study is easy 
to you both, and does not strain your physical con- 
stitution. There is a vast difference in the way in 
which intellectual application affects those who come 
of families unaccustomed to mental labor.” 

"I remember,” said Richard, "that when the 
Charmer used to address her cousin as 1 Elizabeth 
Allen ’ I always wished I could be called ‘ Rich- 
ard’ — something. I wonder shall I never find 
Elizabeth Allen?” 

Where, indeed, was Elizabeth Allen? Eight 
months she remained in the hospital, becoming the 
especial favorite of physicians and nurses. For 
the last two months she shared the private room 
of one of the nurses, and during all the period she 
spent a great part of her time in reading and re- 
ceived the particular care of a lovely lady who 
visited the hospital weekly. 

These eight months made a great change in 
Elizabeth. Mrs. Maypinn would not now have 


246 


RAG FAIR AND MA Y FAIR. 


described her as “ a tallish girl not a bit pretty 
she would have said she was “ a tall girl and very 
pretty.” Her hands and her complexion, which 
had been roughened in the days of her lodging- 
house servitude, became soft and fine as they had 
naturally been; her hair, sold for Agnes’s sake, 
had now grown again, a superb length of wavy, 
burnished gold ; a peaceful, tranquil expression 
smoothed out the anxious lines and curves traced 
by the Varieties and Poplar Court. Careful ob- 
servance of all the best that she had seen had 
refined her manners and her expression. 

As the time drew near for her to leave this shel- 
ter which had proved so fortunate for her Elizabeth 
wasted some anxieties for herself, as Richard had 
wasted some anxieties for Benje. What should she 
do now? 

But God made for her 

“A way no more expected 
Than when his sheep 
Passed through the deep, 

By crystal walls protected.” 

“What do you wish to do now, Elizabeth?” 
asked the lady-visitor who had for eight months 
befriended her. 

“ I do not know what I can do,” said Elizabeth, 
“ but I know what I would like to do. More than 
anything I should like to be a nurse. I must make 


THE FAVORS OF FORTLNE. 


247 


my living, and it seems to me that I would like to 
nurse sick people, especially sick little children.” 

“Very good,” said the lady; “I will put you 
into a training-school for nurses. How old are 
you, Elizabeth?” 

“Almost seventeen.” 

“ You shall have three years’ training as a nurse.” 

So followed for Elizabeth three beautiful years 
when, in a quiet, well-appointed little hospital, 
she was taught by certain gracious and consecrated 
women and venerable physicians the art of nursing 
the sick. She learned to soothe the body and calm 
the mind, to comfort, to encourage, to enliven, to 
open the gates of health, and to show the promises 
that gild the gates of death. 

“ Like faith or peace in dark affliction’s place, 

She smoothed the farrows on the front of care, 

Lit with the glory of a smiling face 

The gloomy dens and caverns of despair, 

“And, blest as hope, sent forth her kindly hand, 

Bearing its gracious gifts from door to door, 

Till like a ray of light across the land 

Her heart’s large love went brightening more and more.” 

When Elizabeth’s three years of training were 
finished and she was ready to begin work, the first 
place to which she was called was the home of the 
lady who had befriended her. In one of the pret- 
tiest suburbs of London this lady was fading away 


248 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


in a slow consumption, and for two years Elizabeth 
was her constant attendant. She sat with her, 
nursed her, read to her, was instructed by her, was 
the almoner of her charities, and became more like a 
sister or a dear friend than a hired nurse. Then 
for two years longer Elizabeth remained in this fam- 
ily, nursing the aged mother of her benefactress, and 
it was at her death, when Elizabeth was twenty-four 
years old, that she entered upon wide duties. Her 
friend had established a fund for the support of a 
nurse in the crowded neighborhood of Portugal 
street, aud Elizabeth was there the first nurse. 

Elizabeth took two sunny, neatly-furnished little 
rooms overlooking Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and was 
ready day and night to go her rounds, not only 
among the chronically destitute, but among those 
other, and even more-to-be-compassionated, poor 
who have known better days, and who find a terrible 
shrinking sense of humiliation added to the keen- 
ness of poverty. She sometimes wondered, as she 
went her rounds, whether she should ever come 
upon her beloved cousin Elsie. Remembering 
the sudden fashion of the Charmer’s disappearance, 
Elizabeth felt that only death or greater evil could 
have been the Charmer’s fate. 

And since that day when the mistaken aud in- 
dignant Richard assailed her in her carriage with 
reproaches the Charmer had seen many changes in 
her affairs. Mrs. Tillman, who had insisted that 


THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE. 


249 


she should live as long as her adopted daughter did, 
died suddenly. Those women who do nothing but 
pursue fashion and kill time generally manage to 
wear themselves out as soon as, or sooner than, any 
of their sister-women who are overburdened with 
honest work. 

Having eschewed even the mention of “ wills, and 
such grizzly things,” she had made no provision for 
Elsie, and left the girl absolutely nothing but seve- 
ral wardrobes full of gay garments, while she shared 
the jealous envy of all Mrs. Tillman’s legal heirs, 
who had resented her semi-adoption. 

“What can you do for yourself, Miss Elsie?” 
said the lawyer who had more than once remon- 
strated in her behalf. “ You are left without sup- 
port.” 

“I used to charm serpents in a Varieties,” said 
Elsie, “ but now I find in myself no fitness for ser- 
pent-charming. I simply could not dress up fan- 
tastically and enter a snake-cage before a crowd of 
leering idiots.” 

“And aside from that?” 

“ I suppose I can sell gloves or candy or lace in 
a shop, if any one will give me a place,” said poor 
Elsie, “and I can sell all these gay clothes to a 
second-hand dealer for a twentieth part of what 
they cost.” 

“ It is thus by being given no visible means of 
support, no education that will assure independence, 


250 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


that young women are wronged,” said the lawyer. 
“You are allowed, in dress and luxuries of all 
kinds, to live up to the limit of the large income 
of some one who is supporting you, and then that 
person dies, and the income dies also so far as you 
are concerned, and, used to splendor and idleness 
and amusement, you are suddenly without even the 
means to buy a pair of shoes. This condition lies 
back of many miserable histories.” 

“You remember,” said the Charmer, quietly, 
“ that before Mrs. Tillman took possession of me — 
because she liked my appearance and thought that 
I looked like her dead daughter — I was very poor. 
I knew how to go without almost everything that 
people generally think necessary, and I have earned 
my own living. I can do it again, only in some 
other way. I must now, as I said, be a clerk be- 
hind a store-counter, unless some fashionable mo- 
diste will hire me to show off bonnets, hats and 
cloaks by trying them on.” 

“ Yes, yes !” cried the old gentleman ; “and either 
of these employers would expect you to wear a silk 
gown and a pretty collar, and meanwhile, expecting 
you to be dressed like a lady, they would give you 
the wages of a scullery-maid. You would be occu- 
pied all day, without an hour’s time to make or 
mend your clothes, or to wash them, or to cook 
your food. You would be required to be well 
dressed and to have fine, well-kept hands. Mean- 


THE FA VORS OF FORTUNE. 


251 


while, your pay, leaving your clothes quite out of 
the question, would not be sufficient to provide you 
decent food and lodging.” 

“ But what am I to do ?” asked Elsie. “ I must 
take what I can get and do the best I caq. I could 
not have laid up money, because Mrs. Tillman gave 
me almost none, and the few shillings I had I could 
not help giving to the very, very poor whom I saw 
— because, you know, I from my own memories 
could tell how needy they were.” 

“And how about the rich man you were to 
marry ?” 

“ Oh,” said Elsie, looking down with a blush, 
“ the rich men were all like Mercy’s suitors, in the 
Pilgrim's Progress . They liked me well enough, 
but not my conditions. Rich men do not want to 
marry 6 Nobody ’ without a penny in her pocket. 
And now I am twenty-five, and I think I am old 
enough to make my own way in the world.” 

“ You might,” said the lawyer, “ if you had ever 
learned to do anything, and if you had not the 
manners of a woman who has been spending all 
her time pleasing and amusing people in society, 
and if you did not look six years younger than you 
are, and if you were not half so pretty. As it is, 
I cannot see that you can do better now than to 
come home with me to my wife — who, as all her 
daughters are married, will be very glad to have 
you to keep her company — while we think of some- 


252 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


thing better for you. Are all Mrs. Tillman’s rela- 
tions and friends against you ?” 

“All but little Lady Hobart/’ said the Charmer, 
“and, as she has no fortune and many expenses, 
she is about as poor as I am.” 

“ Well, then you must descend from Belgravia to 
Russel Square,” said the lawyer. “We at least 
shall make you very welcome. I’ve no doubt 
there is some place for you in the world, if you 
wait quietly for it.” 

So Elsie went with the old lawyer and became 
to him as a daughter. Her merry face lit up the 
lonesome home in Russel Square. The good ma- 
tron there renewed her youth in Elsie’s cheerful 
chat, and, being deeply engaged in various philan- 
thropies, she found the Charmer such an efficient 
helper that she only hoped to retain her the rest 
of her life. 

So she might have done had it not been for Dr. 
Fergueson. He had not forgotten the Charmer. 
He heard of Mrs. Tillman’s death, and that her 
protegee was lost out of the glittering regions of 
May Fair. Then, several months after, he met 
“ little ” Lady Hobart, as she was called from her 
childish size and ways. Very naturally, the con- 
versation turned upon the Charmer. 

“And you,” said Lady Hobart, “have deserted 
her, like the rest of her summer friends! I am 
the only one who has stood firm. I should have 


THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE. 


253 


stood by her still even if she had become nursery- 
maid or a clerk in a confectioner’s. I go to see 
her, as it is, often, for all I can do for her is visit 
her and love her just the same. I’m as poor as a 
church-mouse, you know. Don’t you think pov- 
erty and titles fit very badly together?” 

“ Nothing about you seems inharmonious, Lady 
Hobart, for you have sincerity and simplicity, which 
unify things that seem by nature most diverse. And 
she is happy?” 

“ She seems to be much happier than when she 
lived with my cousin Mrs. Tillman. She is with 
Mrs. Tillman’s lawyer — a very bluff old gentle- 
man — and his wife, who spends all her time in 
philanthropy. The old lady is very devoted to 
orphanages and asylums and homes and penny 
dinners and working-girls’ clubs, and Elsie is in 
all, heart and soul. I never see her but she is 
making a wadded jacket for some old woman, or 
getting hospital letters for somebody, or a cork leg, 
or an India-rubber hand.” 

“ I did not desert her when trouble came,” said 
Dr. Fergueson; “she deserted me long before. At 
least, when I had called several times, and had the 
door shut in my face — ” 

“Elsie never shut the door in any one’s face.” 

“At least, I had word that she was ‘not at home,’ 
when I positively knew she was at home.” 

“ Elsie never sent such word. My poor cousin 


254 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


Tillman was given to society lies, but Elsie — never ! 
The truth is, doctor, I know that it was Mrs. Till- 
man’s manoeuvre, and Elsie — was sorry about it.” 

“ Then — then, perhaps, Lady Hobart, you think 
she would see me if I called now?” said Dr. Fer- 
gueson, eagerly. 

“ You might try, and see. There is great inter- 
est in experiments ; it was ouly by experiments that 
I ever learned anything,” said the little lady, de- 
murely. 

Aud so it happened that Dr. Fergueson appeared 
in Russel Square without loss of time, and was not 
told that the Charmer was not at home. But it was 
owing to this, also, that in about six months the 
good lawyer and his wife lost their pleasant young 
companion, who went to make sunshine in Dr. Fer- 
gueson’s not very sunny home in Bloomsbury. 

Elizabeth and the Charmer were now not so far 
apart as when one had lived in Rag Fair as a fac- 
tory-girl and the other dwelt in May Fair as Mrs. 
Tillman’s plaything. It seemed that now they 
might meet, for both were to be found so often in 
the homes of the poor. But London has so many 
poor that lines of philanthropy are by no means 
sure of crossing one another. 

And if the Charmer, walking on her errands of 
mercy or riding betimes in the modest coup6 which 
she shared with her husband, had seen Elizabeth, 
she would not have known her. The little Eliza- 


THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE. 


255 


beth had grown tall, and the hair that had hung 
in a club down her back was now bound about her 
head, and instead of the rebellious vexation at being 
obliged to sing for a living a serene peace had come 
into her face. Now, in a long blue flannel dress 
and cloak and a little close blue bonnet, Elizabeth, 
carrying her bag of needles, thread, scissors, lint, 
bandages, camphor, simple remedies, little packets 
of beef-tea, ground rice, and other delicacies, all 
compactly bestowed, went daily from house to 
house ; and when the eye saw her, then it blessed 
her, and comfort came where she came. 

On one of those days, when Elizabeth in her 
rounds had on her knee a little child suffering from 
one of the many accidents which befall Loudon 
poor children in their crowded homes, the impulse 
came to her to soothe the unfortunate infant with a 
song. For all these years she had not tried to sing; 
now unconsciously she began. And her voice had 
come back to her — not now high and strained, as 
when she sang in the Varieties, but rich and sweet 
and low and motherly, as tuned to slumber-songs. 

After that how often did Elizabeth calm the rest- 
less spirits of her patients or lull their babes to sleep 
or win their turbulent thoughts for heavenly themes 
by song ! 

“ Sing to me, nurse, won’t you ?” 

“ You’ll please sing me just one hymn ? It stays 
by me all day.” 


256 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR . 


“ The little ones, they do try to sing to each other 
as you sings to them.” 

" Well, it do seem, hearing of you, as if an angel 
had come right down out of the sky.” 

Then Elizabeth would laugh aud say that angels 
were sure not “to wear flannel frocks and carry 
about bags weighing four or five pounds.” 

How often passers-by in crowded Drury Lane 
or Portugal street or Fetter Lane, heard drifting 
down from low-browed upper stories or attic-rooms 
or floating out of dark rear-tenements a voice sweet, 
full, soothing ! — 

“Come unto me when shadows darkly gather, 

And the tired heart is weary and oppressed ; 

Seeking for refuge with your heavenly Father, 

Come unto me, and, coming, be at rest.” 
or 

“When gathering clouds around I view, 

And days are dark and friends are few, 

On Him I lean who not in vain 
Experienced every human pain. 

He sees my wants, allays my fears, 

And counts and treasures up my tears.” 

More than once Richard heard this beautiful 
voice, and in it there were notes which reminded 
him of days when the Prodigy practiced new pieces 
standing before the old Swiss master, who sat on a 
pine coffin and touched, here and there, a note on 
his little worn-out violin. 


THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE. 


257 


“ Who is this sweet singer?” asked Richard. 

No one knew. The Londoner is constitutionally 
opposed to knowing anything outside of his imme- 
diate business : he even knows nothing about the 
metropolis beyond the confines of his particular 
neighborhood. 

Richard would pause and listen till the singing 
ended ; then he would move on to avoid attracting 
attention or unpleasing remark. 

Richard heard by and by of a nurse who was so 
comforting and helpful and “ who sang like an an- 
gel.” He began to connect together the nurse and 
the singing which he had heard : 

“ What is she like ?” 

“ Oh, just nice!” 

“ Just as good as gold !” 

These poor creatures have no descriptive vocabu- 
lary. A niceness that touches helpfully their trou- 
ble — that is all they know about it. 

“ What is the singer’s name ?” 

“Why, ‘ Nurse’ ! That is all. She never wants 
to be called anything else.” 

“Not a common nurse?” 

“Oh no ! Just like a lady. Only she said that 
she had been poor.” 

Once or twice, as Richard went to some of the 
poor patients whom he shared with his professor, 
he thought he saw this famous nurse — a well-made 
woman who walked nobly and simply, as having 
17 


258 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


work to do, and whose dark-blue garb vanished 
before him up some alley or court. 

Richard had at one time a patient — a child whose 
eyes he was treating — and this nurse came into the 
case, washing the child daily and teaching its 
mother to air the room, to cleanse the bedding and 
to make good soup. The medical treatment thus 
reinforced, the child’s eyes were saved. But the 
nurse always paid her helpful visit early in the 
day, at a time when Richard was in the lecture- 
room. 

There was Richard learning with skilled and 
daring hand, with surgical knife which became the 
chisel of genius, to enter the delicate pavilion of 
sight, the cornea, to thread his perilous way between 
rescue and ruin, respecting here the hyaloid mem- 
brane and there the precious unreplaceable vitreous 
humor, pursuing with reverent wonder the myste- 
ries of one of the choicest manifestations of life. 

Richard had now completed his course in the 
medical school and had received his degree in sur- 
gery, and his intense desire was to go to France 
and to Germany for a year of study under eminent 
oculists. How he should accomplish this desire he 
could not tell, but he felt that accomplish it he must. 
He had a debt of gratitude to pay. 

The memories awakened by the voice of the un- 
seen singer had driven Richard again to search for 
Gran. He found Gran hearty and likely to live, 


THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE. 


259 


but a veil had fallen over her sight : cataract had 
darkened both eyes. And Gran did not bear her 
deprivation with the stoicism that characterized 
Auberle. 

Perceiving that Richard had some knowledge 
of her case, Gran implored him : 

“ Oh, Richard, Richard ! can’t you help me to 
another sight of the sun? They tell me the ope- 
ration would be dangerous, but never mind. I’d 
risk dying for the sake of a chance of seeing light 
once more. Oh how darkness weighs on me !” 

“ If only I could try ! If only I could succeed !” 
said Richard. 

“ Had Gran seen Elizabeth again ?” 

No, never, since that holiday from service now 
years gone by. 

Then, surely, thought Richard, Elizabeth must 
be dead. But Richard had no time to mourn for 
Elizabeth. Here were Gran and Auberle pleading 
with him to give them back the light — pleading, 
though the doctors said each case was hopeless. 

When this was said, Richard’s thoughts were wont 
to revert to the days when he was studying by Au- 
berle’s loom and Mr. Rene had asked him to come 
and hear of the greatest physician who had ever 
lived, who had cured diseases with a touch and 
who had given sight to blind eyes. It had made 
him often feel very near to the Christ to consider 
what joy had filled his merciful heart when some 


260 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


suffering one had at his hands received instant heal- 
ing. The more desperate the case, the greater the 
joy of recovery ; and, while Richard did not ex- 
pect to work miracles, he felt that the limit of 
human wisdom and human skill had not been 
reached, and that God gave great rewards to hon- 
est, faithful workers. So with him study and effort 
and prayer went hand in hand. 

Richard was the more inspired to this by a little 
incident that occurred one day in his miuistrations 
among the poor. He congratulated his patient 
upon her remarkable improvement. The patient 
was the mother of several fatherless children, and 
she desired to live. 

“I think we have just the right treatment here,” 
said Richard, “ and the nursing seems to be excel- 
lent.” 

“Ay,” said the woman, “and the praying’s ex- 
cellent too, doctor.” 

“ I don’t quite understand you,” said Richard. 

“ It’s the nurse,” said the woman. “ She comes 
here and does all she can for me, and makes me 
comfortable, and ‘ I’ll give you a verse,’ she says, 
i for your soul to rest on through the day, and we’ll 
say a word of prayer to God that he will bless the 
means that are taken and give the doctor skill 
and understanding;’ and then she takes hold of 
my hand. And it is a soft, strong white hand she 
has. And for a minute she prays most beautiful, 


THE FAVORS OF FORTUNE. 


261 


and I feel most sure the praying does a vast of 
good.” 

“ So it does,” said Richard. “ Tell her I thank 
her and ask her to pray for me.” 

Richard never dreamed that he sent this message 
to the dear and lost Elizabeth. 


CHAPTER IV. 

IN THE NIGHT. 



HILE Richard thus came close to Elizabeth’s 


* ' path of life, and yet narrowly missed her, 
he recognized and laid hold upon one who for a 
brief hour had shared her way and his — “ ’Arry.” 

Richard had been back to “ Miracle Alley,” back 
to the cobbler’s shop where for so many years old 
Jacob had wrought with awl and last, and where 
now his years of toil had drawn to their close, and 
the low seat by the window and the little cobbler’s 
tray of tools had been left for ever. In his increas- 
ing prosperity Richard had not neglected to visit 
Jacob. In the hard times of Poplar Court and 
of Benje’s typhoid fever, Richard had drawn back 
within his miseries as a snail in its shell, and had 
not thought of telling to his poor friends the rosary 
of his sorrows. When he could bring them the 
good cheer of a sunny face, a hearty hand-clasp, an 
encouraging word, and sometimes help or care, he 
went back to those who had brought into his child- 
hood what small share of comfort he had known. 
Thus it happened that he had marked Jacob tread- 


262 


IN THE NIGHT. 


263 


ing “ the downward way to death,” had visited him 
daily, sat by his bedside those last three days of the 
very many days of his life, and had dutifully closed 
the old man’s eyes. 

“I don’t need to be beholden to you for help, 
my lad,” Jacob had said ; “ I have laid enough by 
to keep me for a week or two, and to bury me. 
Give my few things to the widow in the cellar 
over the way. The rent’s paid for nine months 
ahead, so let her come here and live the time out. 
She is not of the seed of Abraham, but she is of 
the race of Adam, and I’ll die more comfortable 
if I feel she is the better for my having been in 
the world and for my going out of it.” 

“I’ll look after her,” said Richard. “ Suppose 
we have her eldest boy taught cobbling, to take 
your tools and place?” 

The old man’s sunken eyes lighted with the joy 
of benevolence. Then a sudden thought came to 
him : 

“ Richard, I had not believed that I should die 
like this. When I was a boy and heard the rab- 
bis or the devout women talking, when I was a 
young man like you, I believed that soon — very 
soon — a Deliverer would arise for Israel, the Christ 
would come to rule his enemies with a rod of iron, 
to break the oppressions of the Gentiles, to set up 
a kingdom for the chosen seed, and that I, who was 
looking and longing for his kingdom, should dwell 


264 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


under his sceptre with great delight. I expected 
to live in that empire where peace and righteous- 
ness reign, where a child shall die at a hundred 
years old, where war and violence and sickness 
and the pains of old age are not known. I gave 
up my hope long ago ; I grew weary waiting for 
him. But I tell you, Richard, I have missed him 
out of my life.” 

“My father,” said Richard, bending over the 
dying Jew, “ I have told you over and over again 
— Mr. Renk has told you — that he, the Messiah, 
has come and you perceived him not.” 

“ It is false ! It is false !” cried the Jew, lift- 
ing himself up on his elbow. “ If he had come, he 
would have at least left his impress on the world 
he made. His image would have lain upon the 
hearts of men ; the grace of his laws would have 
moulded the apostate race of Adam ; we should 
have seen the track of his footsteps across the 
earth. I cry out for my King — for the Lord 
whom we seek who shall suddenly come to his 
temple — and you tell me of the Nazarene, a car- 
penter’s son, a man, a man who died ! What good 
can a dead man do me ? Why did he come if that 
dying was all ?’ 

“ He came because that living and that dying 
— and what came after — were enough and wor- 
thy of a God. He came to fulfill what the proph- 
ets spoke. If the ancient Scripture is the truth of 


IN THE NIGHT. 


265 


God, must not every word of it be fulfilled ? And 
how could a King descending in power and reign- 
ing in glory fulfill these words ? — ‘ He is despised 
and rejected of men ; a man of sorrows, and ac- 
quainted with grief ; and we hid as it were our faces 
from him ; he was despised, and we esteemed him 
not. He was wounded for our transgressions, he was 
bruised for our iniquities. He was oppressed, and 
he was afflicted. He is brought as a lamb to the 
slaughter. He was taken from prison and from 
judgment.’ Is this spoken of a world-conqueror 
-—of a king with the nations under his feet?” 

“ But was he not 1 to divide a portion with the 
great, and the spoil with the strong ’ ? Was he not 
1 to sit as a refiner of silver ’ ? And is it not written 
‘ that every one that is left of the nations shall go 
up from year to year to worship the King, the Lord 
of hosts ’ ?” 

“ Yes, it is written, and it shall be fulfilled. But 
the other must also be fulfilled. It has been ful- 
filled. First he came in his advent of humiliation 
— true God and very man, bearing the sins of his 
people; true Lamb of God slain from the foundation 
of the world — and yet again he shall come in his 
glory with all the hosts of heaven at his feet ; and 
so not one jot or one tittle shall pass from the law 
or the prophets until all be fulfilled. In the Man 
Christ Jesus, Jacob, behold also the true Messiah, 
the very God, two natures in one person. Think 


266 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


of all I have read to you about him. The man 
hungers ; the God multiplies loaves and fishes and 
turns water into wine. The man sleeps heavily on 
a pillow ; the God rises, and winds and sea obey 
him. The man prays all night on the mountain, 
and in the morning walks the water, a God. The 
man is betrayed by his friend ; the God calls the 
dead friend, Lazarus, from the tomb. You see a 
human body lying in the sleep of death ; you see 
the God rising from that rock-hewn tomb. Is not 
this the Christ ?” 

Jacob’s eyes were fixed on Richard ; a strange 
wonder was in his face. He suddenly in a wild 
monotone took up a chant : 

“ ‘ The man whose eyes are open hath said : he 
hath said w r hich heard the words of God, and knew 
the knowledge of the Most High, which saw the vision 
of the Almighty falling into a trance, but having 
his eyes open ; I shall see him, but not now; I shall 
behold him, but not nigh ; there shall come a Star 
out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall arise out of Israel.’ ” 

Then his voice sank away ; he dropped slowly 
back on his hard pallet. One trembling wrinkled 
hand was held out as if to grasp the hand of some 
Helper who passed by in the night and the dark- 
ness, and the lonely pilgrimage of eighty years was 
ended. 

It was after the neighbor-people had come in and 
prepared old Jacob’s body for burial, and when the 


IN THE NIGHT. 


267 


dead lay covered with a sheet — as Gran had lain so 
long ago — that Richard went out into the lanes and 
streets of the East End, finding his way home to 
the precincts of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. His heart 
was full of memories of that wretched time when he 
had daily gone for Gran’s gin and Benje’s bread, 
and when he had often shared his scanty crust with 
that weaker child of misfortune — Betty. Something 
drew him to go down the steps to that dark river 
where Betty had found death. He stood against 
an archway ; he looked at the black tide rising un- 
der the lines of the lamplight scattered from wharves 
and bridges, and he thought of Betty and the little 
babe stifled in the muddy Thames. 

“It was a short journey through the river to the 
Lover of little children for the baby,” said Richard 
to himself. “ And what about Betty? Poor Betty ! 
she too was only a child — a child, mind and body. 
The age, the careless age which should have nur- 
tured her, really dwarfed and crippled her. It 
was not the brave, self-forgetting, self-sacrificing, 
steadfast-hearted Betty that went down to the river : 
it was a poor creature crazed with hunger and heart- 
sorrow and despair. What a comfort it is to remem- 
ber that wider than all human hearts is the com- 
passionate heart of Christ ! There is One who un- 
derstands us better than we understand one another 
or ourselves.” 

And just as Richard thought of that, a tall, gaunt 


268 


RAG FAIR AN1) MAY FAIR. 


figure clad in rags, hatless and shoeless, came down 
the steps, and with that hasty coming was about to 
find refuge in the river, only that the brawny arm 
of Richard, suddenly held out, stopped him, forced 
him back upon the steps, and held him there, while 
Richard said, 

“ No, no, my lad ! Not the river now.” 

“ Let me go,” said the man, panting. “ There’s 
naught for me in a world made only for the rich 
and lucky. Let me go ! I’m clemmed, I’m nigh 
naked, I’ve not a bed but the stones. I’ve lost her 
as only cared for me — my wife — and there’s no work 
for the like of me, with the prison-stamp on me. 
But it wasn’t my fault — no, it wasn’t. It was all 
the rest of them’s fault, so it was. Let loose of me, 
I say !” 

“ No,” said Richard ; <( I will hold you and help 
you. I stood here thinking of a friend — of one I 
had known as a boy, of one whom I loved, my poor 
little sister in misery, who came here to die and no 
arm was reached out to hold her back. I will hold 
you back for her sake. If you are starving, come ; 
it is but a few steps to hot food. I have clothes for 
you ; there is a bed for you where I lodge. I have 
known all about hunger and cold and pain and hope- 
lessness, and I have lived them down. And so must 
you.” 

He pulled the man up and guided him along the 
steps and through the silent street to a little all- 


IN THE NIGHT. 


269 


night-open chop-house, where he ordered hot meat 
and coffee. Then, as he watched the man eating 
ravenously, he saw that it was — “ ’Arry.” 

“ I won’t trouble you more,” said “’Arry” as 
they went into the street again. “ The food has put 
a bit of heart into me. But this is a hard world, a 
hard country, a hard city, for the like of me.” 

“You’ll come home with me,” said Richard. 
“ You forget me, but I remember you ; you helped 
me once. You were a jolly young coster then, and 
you helped me flit away from lodgings I could not 
pay for, into free lodgings in Poplar Court.” 

“ ’Arry ” searched his memory for the reminis- 
cence, and found it. 

“You? You?” he said, stopping under a gas- 
lamp to stare at his companion. “Why, you’re 
a gentleman !” 

“I’m that little boy grown up and helped along 
by friends as I’m going to help you. One good 
turn deserves another.” 

“I never see you ag’in till now,” said Harry, 
“ but I see ’er ag’in.” 

“ Who ?” demanded Richard. 

“ The wise little gal with the yaller ’air. I see 
’er ’long the next spring. She ’ad fallen in with a 
gal I knew named Betty who was takin’ of ’er 
’ome, an’, bein’ as she was nigh done out, I give ’er 
a lift down Tower ’Amlets way, on my barrer.” 

“ I owe you more now than for helping me,” 


270 


BAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


said Richard, seizing Harry by the arm to aid him 
on. “ Here ! come in here and have a bath and a 
shave, and then come to my room. I’ll buy you 
some clothes while you’re getting a wash ; there’s 
always a place open here in Drury Lane.” 

Richard, full of excitement, believed he might 
now be on the track of Elizabeth ; but when Harry 
was safely in his room and lying on a bed Richard 
had hastily made up for him, he could tell almost 
nothing of Elizabeth : 

“ She went to Betty’s mam’s. She was pal to 
Aggie, a humpback sister of Betty’s. They went 
off somewheres along of mam’s husband ack- 
ing so wicked ugly. I don’t know what become 
of the gal with the yaller ’air. Aggie died a cou- 
ple of days ater me an’ Betty was married, an’ I 
never see the other gal ag’in.” 

He had forgotten where Aggie and Elizabeth 
went, or what work they did, or where Betty had 
visited them. He remembered only his own most 
wretched story, and he poured it out hotly, furi- 
ously, with wails of pain and rage for his wife and 
child and the madness of a wounded wild beast 
against his persecutors : 

“ I can’t find Betty nor the kid nowhere; I can’t 
get no track of them. I make sure they’re dead, 
but I want to know they ain’t starving. I’ve been 
out two months, and I’ve looked for them, and I 
can’t hear a word.” 


IN THE NIGHT. 


271 


“I can tell you,” said Richard, very gently. 
“ They are far better off than you can make them. 
I knew them ; I knew Betty from the time when 
she was a little girl. She did not have long to 
suffer after you were shut up. Betty was not 
very strong, you know.” 

“ She’d a-bin strong enough if she’d ever ’ad 
’alf enough to eat,” interrupted poor Harry, fierce- 
ly. “ There’s some gals — good uns too — comes 
into this world never to get so much grub as other 
women gives lavish to their dogs.” 

“ It is true, my poor Harry !” said Richard, 
with tears in his eyes. “ But Betty is done with 
all that. She is dead — she and the babv — long ago. 
I saw them dead — very quiet and peaceful ; and 
they had had no long sickness, and had not to go 
to a hospital or to the house, or to be parted. They 
— -just died. And outside of the troubles of this 
world, Harry, there is a world of rest and peace 
and plenty, and the good Lord knows his own, 
though men may not.” 

“ Head !” said Harry. “ Dead ! Gone ! I’m 
glad of it. Done starving ! Done freezing ! Done 
wearing out by inches ! I’m glad ! — But oh, Bet- 
ty, Betty, Betty ! I loved you and you loved me, 
and you were all I had.” Then, furiously, “ Now 
I’m going to live only to rave and rage and rob 
and tear these cruel demons who ruined me and 
my Betty.” 


272 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


It was Richard the embryo doctor who sent 
Harry to sleep with a strong opiate. It was Rich- 
ard the friend who in weary days of illness calmed 
and comforted poor Harry, never telling him that 
fatal truth about Betty’s death in the river. It 
was Richard the man who, aided by Mr. Ren&, put 
heart and hope and humanity into that enraged wild 
beast that modern society had produced. Finally, 
it was Richard who sent Harry off with some emi- 
grants to Canada, facing a new life, having learned 
to hope once more, to look back — at less than thirty 
years — to long ages of loss and pain, but on to pos- 
sibilities of self-help, of home, of family. After 
that, during many years, Richard heard occasion- 
ally from Harry — labored epistles from the man 
who had learned to read and to write when almost 
in middle life. In these years Richard learned 
that Harry had found in the New World a God, 
a home, a little competence, a wife, a family, but 
that he had never forgotten the wife of his hope- 
less London struggle, and that his eldest daugh- 
ter was, though born to better fortunes, named 
“ Betty.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE SUCCEEDING OF SUCCESS. 

W HY had not Elizabeth been to see Gran? 

Surely her charity should have begun at 
home, and should have taken her to visit the old 
dame living in St. Bride’s almshouses. So it would 
have done, but Elizabeth supposed that Gran was 
dead. While she lay in the hospital she had seen 
the notice of the death of Dame Mary Hodge at 
St. Bride’s almshouses. She never imagined that 
“ Mary ” was an error for “ Martha,” and that Gran 
was still alive, while her fellow-pensioner of the 
same surname had made room for another. 

If Elizabeth had been able to go out at that time, 
she would have visited St. Bride’s to learn some- 
thing about Gran’s last days. As several months 
passed before she could go out for such an excursion, 
she grew accustomed to the idea of Gran’s death, and 
so went no more to St. Bride’s. She pursued her 
daily nursing-rounds, not knowing that her voice 
sometimes reached the ear of the long-lost Rich- 
ard. Soon it reached Richard’s ears no more, for 
scarcely had he received his diploma than he left 
18 273 


274 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


England for that year of study on the Continent. 
His benefactor the professor was killed in a railroad 
accident; he left Richard his little all — five thousand 
pounds. The only way for Richard to show his 
gratitude was to use the bequest well, and to raise 
up for his dead master a lasting monument in his 
own highest achievements. 

Elizabeth had been going her rounds nursing in 
her district for some fifteen months in all when 
Richard returned from his year of foreign study. 
Elizabeth, in the humble circle of her duties, was 
now a loved and honored name ; Richard came back 
to England preceded by the encomiums of his 
teachers and by reports of his skill in many diffi- 
cult operations. He was one of the men who rise 
early and rapidly into notice, born to be a success. 

In England, Gran and Auberle awaited Richard 
with impatience. Gran had been told by various 
surgeons who examined her eyes that her case was 
hopeless, and that her age made an operation danger- 
ous; but Gran insisted that she was ready to risk 
death on one small chance of having sight restored, 
and Richard believed there was for her one such 
chance — “ one in a thousand/’ he told her. 

“ I’ll risk it,” said Gran, with trembling impa- 
tience. “ I have lived long enough, any way — 
too long if I am to be blind. I sit in the dark and 
think of Elizabeth and of my dear lost Elsie, and of 
all those who made comfort in my life and went 


THE SUCCEEDING OF SUCCESS. 


275 


out of it so long ago. I am not afraid to die, and 
I know I have more friends and kindred in the 
other world than in this. If the Lord wills that I 
shall live on, it will be all right. If he wills that 
I should die, that will be just as right, and maybe, 
son Richard, very much better.” 

So Gran was removed to the hospital to make 
ready for the operation. 

Auberle had been lodging for some time with 
Mrs. Maypinn, who made him as comfortable as she 
could. Richard no longer allowed Auberle to stum- 
ble about the streets and sell toys ; since he had 
some small means of his own, he took care of 
Auberle. 

Auberle had been told that there was hope that 
the cataract that obscured his vision might be suc- 
cessfully removed ; Richard begged him to place 
himself in the hands of a famous oculist. 

“ Not I,” said Auberle ; “ I’ll have no one but 
Richard. If he puts my eyes out finally, I’ll be no 
worse off than I am, and I shall know that he tried 
his very best to help me and put all his good-will 
and all his skill into his work. But if he succeeds, 
it will be a great credit to him, and will be talked 
about, and will help him make his fortune. When 
Richard was a poor little lad just beginning to study, 
I taught him all I knew, to try and make a man of 
him ; now the last thing that is left me to do for 
him is to let him try his hand on my eyes. I won’t 


276 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


have any West-End swell cutting at me ; Ell have 
Richard. Poor folks should help one another.” 

“ You’d think Richard was a West-End swell if 
you could see him now, Auberle,” said Mrs. May- 
pinn. “ He wears a mighty good suit of clothes, 
and shiny boots, and a watch, and gold buttons in 
his shirt, and a cambric handkerchief.” 

“ His heart’s in the right place, if he does,” said 
Auberle, uneasily. “ And you know, Mistress May- 
pinn, if he’s to live, he must earn money ; he can’t 
make his way by doctoring poor folks only, and that 
for nothing. He must have some patients among 
the rich ones ; and if he is to have them, he must 
wear such clothes as you are describing. He’ll make 
his living among the rich and spend his money 
for the poor. I know Richard.” 

“ You don’t know how he looks,” said Mrs. May- 
pinn, aggravatingly. “ He is as handsome a gentle- 
man to look at as you could wish to see, and speaks 
according, and carries a cane.” 

"Well, he don’t look like a dandy, and he ain’t 
a dandy,” cried Auberle, testily ; “ and if you holds 
up as he is a dandy, Mistress Maypinn, one thing 
is set : I won’t eat my dinner.” 

“ And who’d go hungry then ?” quoth Mrs. May- 
pinn. “Not me, for sure. But Richard is no 
dandy ; it was only yesterday I see him down in the 
street looking at the eyes of a beggar-woman’s baby. 
And he carried the little thing off to the children’s 


THE SUCCEEDING OF SUCCESS. 277 


hospital in his own arms. Well, the people did 
stare, him, so big and fine, marching off with the 
poor dirty little youngster in his arm, and it a-eat- 
ing of a Bath bun all over his good coat.” 

Auberle was mollified ; he listened with satisfac- 
tion to Mrs. Maypinn as she left her sewing and 
heated the soup for their dinner. 

Mrs. Maypinn “ finished off trousers.” By work- 
ing with all her might from daylight until bedtime 
she earned seven shillings a week. Out of this she 
paid three shillings for rent and light and one shil- 
ling for coals ; for food and clothes Mrs. Maypinn 
had left the immense sum of three shillings — less than 
sixpence a day. If Auberle had not been ingenious 
in helping her, having learned in his blindness to 
sew on the trouser-buttons neatly, Mrs. Maypinn 
would have been able to earn but six shillings a 
week. 

Bichard paid two and six a week for a room for 
Auberle, in which he had put Auberle’s treasured 
furniture and a few other things. He also paid 
Mrs. Maypinn five shillings a week for Auberle’s 
board, and this made it possible for the widow to 
live without suffering painful privation. 

The operation on Auberle’s eyes proved entirely 
successful. Amid profound silence Bichard made his 
brief excursion into that microscopic world the eye. 
To enter there removing obstruction, and to return 
leaving light instead of darkness, is an undertaking 


278 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


as stupendous as to weigh worlds or to measure the 
magnitudes of space. Those who stood about and 
waited for the final result of that short but splendid 
labor were as those who stand looking for the resur- 
rection of one dead or for the coming of a new world 
into being. 

But in Auberle’s case others had admitted that 
there was a probability of success, and would have 
undertaken the task of restoration ; in having any 
hope for Gran, Richard stood alone. No one ex- 
pected anything but failure. One of the leading 
oculists of London said to him, 

“ You’ll have the old dame’s death on your hands, 
Richards. I wouldn’t undertake it, if I were you ; 
there’s no hope and too great risk.” 

But Richard had seen a similar case in Germany, 
where he believed that at least partial vision might 
have been restored. Alone in his opinion, he un- 
dertook the task of giving light to Gran ; and here 
also he was fortunate. With firm hand he com- 
pleted the operation. 

“ Shall I see ? Shall I see ?” cried Gran. 

“ In good time you will know,” said Richard, 
delicately adjusting the bandages. His lion-like 
face showed no triumph, gave no hope and took 
no hope away. Science had done its best, and 
waited now on Nature. 

Richard was calm, and limited his words to giv- 
ing the most rigorous orders concerning his patient. 


THE SUCCEEDING OF SUCCESS. 


279 


Then days passed on, and in rest and darkness Na- 
ture’s work was done, and — Gran could see. The 
sight had come back in one eye ; the veil had been 
removed. She could see the light and human faces, 
and could guide once more her own way. 

Thus had Richard paid his debt to his early ben- 
efactress. And by this exploit of surgical skill he 
established his reputation. He became notable at 
once ; he was placed as the peer of much older 
practitioners, aud cases crowded upon him. 

Among others who applied to Richard was a 
rich banker, Mr. Rudolph ; his wife, Lady Fanny 
Hobart Rudolph, was suffering constant pain in 
her eyes and great sensitiveness to light. Going 
to visit her, Richard found a pretty, engaging little 
lady in a dimly-lit, luxurious room. Wearied of 
enforced idleness and retirement, Lady Hobart Ru- 
dolph welcomed hope in her young doctor, and soon 
in the daily visits there grew up a simple, sincere 
friendship between them. 

“ I think, Dr. Richards,” said Lady Hobart, 
“that your mother must be proud of you — very 
proud.” 

“ I have no mother — at least, I do not know that 
I have any parents.” 

“ What do you mean by saying you do not know?” 

“ I never knew any parents, and I never knew 
anything of their death. I do not even know my 
true surname. My first name was Richard; and 


280 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


when I needed a surname, I simply reduplicated 
the first, and made myself Richard Richards.” 

“You are, then, that very interesting and re- 
markable being a self-made man?” 

“ That phrase — ‘ a self-made man ’ — seems to me 
very open to exception. Some men are forced to 
be more self-helpful in early years than others, but 
we are all largely indebted to other people for aid 
and instruction. My first friend was a kind old Jew 
cobbler who mended or made my shoes, and gave 
me some notions of the moral law, and fortified my 
instincts for cleanliness and decency.” 

“ And had you really no relations ?” 

“ I had the dearest little brother in the world — 
Benje. He is now in Edinburgh University.” 

“ ( Benje ’ !” cried Lady Hobart, with animation 
and at once additionally interested. “ Do tell me 
more. Have you not fifteen minutes more to spend 
here? I am so bored by being shut up and idle all 
day ! What you tell me will be so delightful to 
think about ! After the blessed old Jew, what 
friend had you?” 

“A young girl — a laughing, beautiful creature 
who found Benje and me in the streets one night 
and took us home.” 

“ Tell me about her !” said the patient, imper- 
atively. 

“ She was sweet and good, aud a serpent-charmer 
in a Varieties show, poor child !” 


THE SUCCEEDING OF SUCCESS. 


281 


“And what became of her?” 

“There was also her grandmother, a kind old 
woman who took an interest in two wretched lit- 
tle lads, and Elizabeth, a little girl a year younger 
than myself,” said Richard, dropping the grieve- 
some theme of the Charmer. “ Elizabeth figured as 
a musical prodigy. She was a child of wonderful 
good sense, generosity, womanliness, courage. I 
never saw her equal.” 

“And she died?” said Lady Hobart, sadly. 

“ I fear so ; I lost her years ago.” 

“And then who befriended you next?” 

“Auberle — a poor weaver, a man with a kind 
heart and a mind somewhat warped, a man with 
a grudge against the world, which had not been 
greatly good to him ; and yet he did daily all the 
good he knew.” 

“ Oh, are you going ? Why not tell me more ?” 

“ I have other patients,” said Richard, “ and I 
make it a rule to spend some time each day working 
among the poor in the East and North of London 
— the poor from among whom I came, or at least 
among whom I lived, and all whose miseries I shared 
as a child. I cannot spend in pleasant houses such 
as this the time that is due to them.” 

Lady Hobart Rudolph was not dull and lonely 
that day ; she had plenty to think of and rejoice 
over and plan for. How often had her dear adopted 
cousin Elsie told her of those serpent-charming days, 


282 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


and of “me and Benje” found asleep in the snow- 
storm, and of Gran, and Elizabeth ! How delightful 
it would be to learn more of this history from the 
young doctor, and then to tell Elsie how part of her 
long-lost family could be found, and to bring these 
long-parted ones together ! When her grave, mid- 
dle-aged husband came home from his bank and 
hastened to bring the news of the day to his petted 
wife, he found her overflowing with news herself, 
and the rest of the afternoon passed swiftly while he 
heard tales of dearest Elsie, and serpent-charming, 
and “ me and Benje.” 

“ And how are your eyes ?” he asked, at last. 

“ My eyes ? Oh, Pm sure they must be better. 
For the first time for weeks I have forgotten all 
about them.” 

“ If this young man cures your eyes, Pll surely 
make his fortune,” said Mr. Rudolph. 

The next day the amiable patient could hardly 
wait until her eyes were examined and her maid had 
received careful directions about lotions and potions 
before she broke forth : 

“ Doctor, you must take five minutes to tell me 
how you came to think of your present profession.” 

“ It was Elizabeth who first inspired me to edu- 
cate myself and do something in the world worth 
doing — to be, as we called it then, a gentleman. 
We discussed professions as if all lay open to my 
choice, and we selected that of medicine as the most 


THE SUCCEEDING OF SUCCESS. 


283 


desirable. We had neither of us any idea of the 
greatness of the undertaking, and expected very swift 
results from very little labor. But by Auberle’s 
help I begau, and by help of Auberle and others 
I kept on. I remember that I promised to share all 
my good fortune with the dear little Elizabeth, and 
even now all the success and emolument that I have 
seem worthless to me because I cannot fulfill that * 
promise.” 

“ And now, as I see you pulling on your gloves, 

I suppose you are off and will end the day among 
the poor people. Will you take my purse and use 
all that is in it for the ones that need it most ? I 
have an adopted cousin whom I love very much 
who was once poor. She told me very many things 
about the poor, and made me long to help them, but 
I never had any money or freedom to do good un- 
til I married, and then, just as I really was able to 
be of some use in the world, here I had this trouble 
with my eyes. Until they are well you and my 
cousin must do good in my behalf.” 

The next day there were more questions about the 
past, and also tales of what Dr. Richards was now 
doing among the poor and what Mr. Rene was 
doing ; and Lady Hobart said she should have Mr. 
Ren& to dinner, so that he could tell Mr. Rudolph 
of his schemes and his success, and Mr. Rudolph — 
who was “ the very best man in the world ” — would 
subscribe largely to his charitable undertakings. 


284 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


And now Lady Hobart, having enliveued her 
solitude by beautiful plans, sent for her cousin Elsie 
to spend a whole afternoon with her. Then she told 
Elsie all about Richard, and Elsie for the first time 
confessed how she had seen Richard once marching 
in a mob, and how he, a gaunt, fiery-eyed youth, 
had sprung upon her carriage steps and rated her for 
deserting Gran and Elizabeth, and for not having 
courage to endure honest poverty. 

u We’ll make him take all that back in fine style,” 
said Lady Hobart Rudolph, lying back on her 
cushions and fairly shrieking with laughter. 

“ Your eyes must surely be getting well, my 
dear,” said her husband, coming in, “and I shall 
trumpet this doctor’s praises through all London.” 

In pursuance of the plan carefully arranged by 
Elsie and Lady Hobart, Dr. Fergueson was to seek 
out Richard and make his acquaintance ; there was 
no one who could resist the friendliness of Dr. Fer- 
gueson. Then Dr. Fergueson was to invite his new 
acquaintance to a family dinner, and in the pleasant 
little home in Bloomsbury, Richard was suddenly 
to behold the Serpent-Charmer, the vanished Elsie, 
in his hostess, and to hear the curious story of her 
disappearance. 

“ Dear me !” said Lady Hobart Rudolph ; “ I think 
I never had such a lovely time in my life. And, as 
my eyes are bound to get well, I really don’t regret 
the trouble I’ve had with them.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


WHEREIN CROOKED PLACES ARE MADE 
STRAIGHT. 



HEN Richard, agreeably to Dr. Fergueson’s 


" * invitation, appeared at the modest Bloomsbury 
mansion, he was shown into the drawing-room, and 
there, in a low chair by a grate, sat a golden-haired 
lady leaning back and smiling at a little image of 
herself which, standing on her knee, held up her 
arms to “ show how big she was.” 

The lady hastily gave the child to a nurse who 
waited beside her, and advanced with both hands 
extended to Richard. The same fluffy hair, the 
same bright smile, the same look of candid inno- 
cence — the same Charmer as in the years gone by ! 

“ Richard ! Yes, it really is Richard — my Rich- 
ard of the Lion-heart and of the wild-beast days ! — 
My dear,” turning to Dr. Fergueson, who entered, 
“this is the Richard of the ‘Me-and-Benje’ tales. — 
And,” when they were seated near the grate and 
the nurse had departed, “ I have never been able to 
see you since the day you sprang on the carriage 
steps and said a number of hard things to me, Rich- 


ard.” 


285 


286 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ Fm sure I beg your pardon. I was very hasty 
and mistaken and brutal,” said Richard, looking 
down. 

“ I know a deal of your story, because my cousin 
— my adopted cousin, I mean, Lady Hobart Ru- 
dolph — has told me ; it is only fair that I should 
tell you my history before I ask you any questions. 
You remember that last evening I was at the Va- 
rieties, Richard?” 

“ Yes, indeed I do, and how we lost you, and 
looked for you, and cried — all of us — and expected 
you day after day with sick and frightened hearts.” 

u You remember I would not wait, but went off 
alone ? I would not wait because the young man 
who sang tenor in the music-hall of the Varieties 
always would walk home with me or follow me 
unless I left before he could get away. He was 
a saucy fellow. You know our part of the show 
closed half an hour earlier than the other, and I 
always left Elizabeth to come home with the old 
violinist. That night, if you will recall it, was 
raw, dark, windy, rainy. The streets were slip- 
pery with a pasty mud ; the wind fluttered my old 
brown cloak and slapped the wretched little cape 
into my eyes, blinding me. The cape was swept 
up over my face in this way at a turn on a crossing 
just as I slipped in the mud ; and while I tried to 
keep my footing and to release my face from the 
folds of deep cloth, a carriage driving swiftly 


CROOKED PLACES MADE STRAIGHT. 287 


knocked me down. What came next I have been 
told, but cannot recollect, for I was senseless. A 
wheel of the carriage went over my foot, but, as 
the foot lay between two large cobble-stones, it was 
not broken, only badly bruised. A policeman came 
up ; the coachman got off his box, and the lady 
who was in the carriage stepped out. They con- 
cluded that I was not seriously hurt. The lady 
said to the policeman that, as I was evidently a 
poor girl and probably had no very comfortable 
home to go to — and, at all events, they did not 
know where it was — she would take me to her own 
home, see that I recovered from my injuries, find 
my friends for me and give me a compensation for 
my loss of time. She did not want me put in a 
hospital and have remarks made in the papers 
about her carriage having driven over me. The 
policeman, seeing from the card which she gave 
him, the lady herself and coachman, that she was 
a person of respectability, agreed to her proposal, 
and I was put into the carriage, and we were driven 
over to her home in May Fair. 

“ The lady was Mrs. Tillman, an impulsive, kind- 
hearted, liberal, thoughtless and selfish person — a 
contradictory character, Richard. Arrived at her 
house, she handed me, still unconscious, to the care 
of her maid and housekeeper. As my clothes were 
wet and muddy and blood-stained from some slight 
scratches which I had received, they took out for 


288 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


me clothes that had belonged to Mrs. Tillman’s 
daughter, who had been dead over two years. 
They also put me into the bedroom that had be- 
longed to her. 

“ From the shock, the blow on my head, the chill 
of my wet clothes in the carriage and the fact that 
I had long been overtasked, I fell into a high fever, 
and was either stupid or delirious for two or three 
weeks. Mrs. Tillman was so anxious about me, 
and so kind-hearted, that she nursed me herself, 
and became very fond of me. She thought me 
like her daughter, and I suppose I was, for Gran 
had said so, and she knew and had nursed Annie 
Tillman. When I finally came to my senses and 
could think, I told Mrs. Tillman about Gran and 
Elizabeth and the rest of you, and she said she 
would send some money, and would let Gran 
know. 

“But by this time Mrs. Tillman had formed a 
plan to keep me in her daughter’s place. She was 
lonely and not on good terms with her relations 
by marriage, and had no family of her own. She 
thought me pretty, and she thought if she had a 
pretty young lady with her in society she would be 
more sought after and would receive more invita- 
tions and attentions, for she was very fond of fash- 
ionable life and had within only a few years been 
able to enjoy it, when after a lawsuit she recovered 
all the property that Mr. Tillman had left. 


CROOKED PLACES MADE STRAIGHT. 289 

“ After a few days Mrs. Tillman broke the dread- 
ful news to me that on sending to find Gran she had 
learned that both Gran and Elizabeth had died of 
a contagious fever, and that the little boys who 
lived with them had gone no one knew where.” 

“She told you that?” cried Richard. “Well, 
what then?” 

“I had a relapse, and was very ill. When I 
grew better, Mrs. Tillman took me to Torquay, 
and then to Scotland. Then, in the winter, we 
went to the South of France, and Lady Hobart 
went with us. She was a dear little girl a year or 
so younger than Elizabeth ; I liked her and the odd 
name Hobart — for her uncle — which we called her. 

“We were on the Continent until spring, when, 
by means of constant French governesses and moni- 
tions of all kinds, Mrs. Tillman considered me suf- 
ficiently improved in manners to bring back to Eng- 
land. But it was a year before she introduced me 
among her gay friends. About the time when I 
was considered a properly-finished young lady I 
somehow began to suspect some deception about 
Gran, and Lady Hobart and I ran away one day 
in a cab and visited the old place where we had 
lived, — you know, Richard. But I found that it 
was all true. There had been a fire which had 
burnt out many people, but a big woman who 
made shirts said every one about there had died 
with a malignant fever. 

19 


290 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


“ Mrs. Tillman was very fond of me. I was 
still living with her that day when in the carriage 
I saw you, Richard. Afterward she died, having 
made no provision for me by a will, and I was as 
poor as ever. Her lawyer — a dear, good old man — 
took me to be companion for his nice, kind old wife. 
They were like parents to me, but I did not stay 
long with them, because Dr. Fergueson persuaded 
me that I must come here with him. 

“ You see, Richard, that it has been my fortune 
to have an easy, idle, useless life ; only since Mrs. 
Tillman died I have been able — and, indeed, try- 
ing — to live like a person responsible to God and 
desiring to serve humanity. You and Benje have 
had the hard times, and dear Elizabeth escaped all 
by dying when Gran did.” 

“But you were both deceived and mistaken,” 
said Richard. “ Elizabeth certainly did not die 
with Gran, for Gran is living yet, hale and hearty. 
Your husband has no doubt heard of the very 
old lady upon whose eyes I operated ? That was 
Gran.” 

“ Richard ! Do you tell me Gran — my Gran — 
has been alive all these years? Where is she? 
How is she?” 

“ She is very well and cheerful, and she is just 
where Mrs. Tillman sent her — in one of the alms- 
houses of St. Bride’s Foundation.” 

“ I shall go to her the first thing to-morrow. 


CROOKED PLACES MADE STRAIGHT. 291 

The idea of my being in this pleasant home, and 
my dear old Gran, who was so careful of me, in 
an almshouse ! And then only Elizabeth died 
of the fever?” 

“ Not for a year after you disappeared, at least ; 
we were together for that time. I see the whole 
thing, Elsie. I beg your pardon : Mrs. Fergueson. 
Mrs. Tillman wanted to keep you, and she did not 
want your interests divided with others or your 
progress in society encumbered with any poor 
helpless relations. She deceived you.” 

“ Oh, oh, can I believe it ?” cried the Charmer. 

“ Let me tell you our story ; then you will see for 
yourself.” 

So Richard told of the mourning after the 
Charmer, and of how Gran was summarily taken 
to St. Bride’s by Mrs. Tillman’s maid. 

“ I can understand now what the hurry was,” 
he said : “ Mrs. Tillman wanted Gran out of the 
way for fear you should get back to her. She no 
doubt felt that Gran would be better off and you 
would be better off, and for the rest of us it did 
not matter. No doubt the maid was paid to do 
her part well.” 

“I remember,” said the Charmer, “that Mrs. 
Tillman had given Gran five shillings a week, and 
that afterward she gave it to an old aunt of her 
maid’s whom otherwise the maid would have had 
to help.” 


292 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


‘‘That makes the cause of her zeal in the case 
clear,” said Richard. 

“But how did you poor children get on, left 
alone ?” 

Richard told his story fully. Arrived now at 
competence and reputation, he did not sigh over 
his own past woes, but the Charmer sobbed pas- 
sionately and tears were in the eyes of Dr. Fer- 
gueson ; and Richard’s voice was low and broken 
as he told of the miseries and the true-heartedness 
of the dear Elizabeth, and of how, searching much, 
he had never found her. Could she be living yet? 

“ Why not advertise for her ?” said Dr. Fergue- 
son. They did advertise in several papers, but 
Elizabeth was too busy with her poor patients to 
do more than read the news-headings of the daily 
journals ; so she never saw the advertisement. 

Next day the Charmer and Richard went up 
to St. Bride’s, and Richard, going into the little 
almshouse, found the aged dame cheerily washing 
up her three or four breakfast-dishes. He took but 
few words to inform Gran that her long-mourned 
grandchild was sitting at the gate in her own coup£, 
and was just as sweet and pretty and good and affec- 
tionate as she had ever been. 

As a matter of course, the Charmer insisted that 
her grandmother should not be a pensioner on a 
charity, but must come and live with her. Gran 
went in high glee. She had a pretty bedroom, a 


CROOKED PLACES MADE STRAIGHT. 293 


black silk gown, a white mull cap and kerchief ; 
she played with the baby, rode in the eoup£ and 
had dessert every day for dinner. 

For a fortnight Gran was entirely happy; then 
splendor such as this palled upon her. She wea- 
ried for the tiny rooms, the petty cares, the daily 
planning and forethought ; she longed for the com- 
pany of the other old ladies, her companions now 
for twelve years. Gran was homesick for the alms- 
house. 

“ It is no use, Elsie,” said Richard ; “ you only 
injure Gran, trying to keep her here.” 

“ But, Richard, I cannot let her go back to live 
on a charity ; and if I were willing, why her house 
is already taken.” 

“ True ; but do as nearly what she longs for as 
you can. She is too old to sever from all her past 
life.” 

So they hired for Gran lodgings of a small sit- 
ting-room and a small bedroom very near the alms- 
houses. They were neat, sunny rooms with a brisk 
little landlady. A tidy girl who had waited on 
Gran while she was quite blind was brought back, 
and with her most of the poor little bits of Gran’s 
cherished furniture. Elsie reinforced this with new 
articles for use and ornament, and Gran was given a 
pound a week to spend, her rent being paid by the 
quarter. Arrived at her new abode, Gran solemnly 
laid aside the silk gown and mull cap, and rehabil- 


294 


RAO FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


itated herself in the flannel garb and black cap of 
a St. Bride’s pensioner. She folded her fine clothes 
neatly, and said to the Charmer, 

“ Elsie, them I’m to be buried in, remember.” 

And now for the rest of her days was Gran in- 
deed content. She could make daily calls at the 
almshouses on old friends, and, being invited when 
they had received any luxury, could remain to din- 
ner. Every day she had one of the old ladies to 
five-o’clock tea, and she trotted out with her little 
servant, and bought buns, shrimps, cress and kip- 
pered herring for a treat for tea, and then she 
further regaled her guests by telling of the splen- 
dors in which Elsie lived and the greatness of Dr. 
Richards. 

Meanwhile, Benje had come back to Richard for 
a long vacation, and Richard had set up housekeep- 
ing. He leased a pretty house in Torrington Square, 
and Mistress Maypinn came to keep house for him, 
with a sturdy, rosy housemaid for her assistant. 
Auberle came also, and was in his element answer- 
ing the bell, doing the marketing, keeping the front 
steps and the area tidy, and sitting in the office to 
answer questions when u the doctor was out.” 

There was a bright little sitting-room in the base- 
ment where Auberle read the daily papers and choice 
selections from the medical journals to Mistress May- 
pinn, and where they had their meals together. 

“ You see, Dr. Richard, my lad,” said Auberle, 


THE SUCCEEDING OF SUCCESS. 


295 


when Richard suggested that formerly he had been 
more than thankful to sit at the old weaver’s board, 
“ foreign travel and calls in May Fair have given 
you various new-fangled ways which I don’t object 
to, but I can’t fall in with, owing to your not being 
able to teach old dogs new tricks. Moreover, break- 
fast at nine and dinner at six are ways me and Mrs. 
Maypinn couldn’t settle to. So you’ll please let us 
be comfortable in our ways, just as you saw to it 
that Gran was let be comfortable in hers.” 

“Very well, Auberle,” said Richard; “only 
you’ve been a father to me, and all that I have is 
open to you.” 

And now it was two years since Nurse Elizabeth 
had begun making sunshine in shady places near 
Portugal street ; and again and again Richard had 
heard her voice, but had not seen her face. One 
afternoon, going to visit a patient in Portugal street, 
he heard, as he opened the door of the outer of her 
two rooms, the sound of soft singing ; he recognized 
the tones which had so roused the memories of old 
days. Stepping gently toward the half-open door 
of the inner room, he saw a blue cloak and a little 
blue bonnet lying on a chest. His patient, bolstered 
up in her neatly-made bed, had closed eyes and 
folded hands, and was quietly falling asleep. 

In a low chair near the bed sat the nurse. She 
had her back to the door and was rocking to and 
fro, singing to sleep the sick woman’s teething baby. 


296 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


The child’s head was on the nurse’s shoulder, and 
now its eyelids were drooping, but its restless hands 
had pulled down the golden coil of the nurse’s loug 
hair, and the bright braid fell over her shoulders 
as Elizabeth’s had fallen long ago. And the voice 
was the voice of Elizabeth, and the song was a sim- 
ple little ballad taught by the old violinist and once 
sung at the Varieties. 

As Richard stepped forward the singer turned her 
head, and they looked into each other’s eyes. Then 
Elizabeth rose up, but the instinct of the nurse was 
strong in her, and she laid the slumbering baby 
safely on the foot of the bed before she went toward 
Richard : 

“Oh, Richard, can it be? Are you really what 
we planned so long ago — the doctor ?” 

“Yes, Elizabeth, but not with such access of splen- 
dor as we imagined in those old days. I make most 
of my rounds on foot, and I never drive six horses.” 

“ Aud where is Benje ?” 

“At my house just now. And I have found the 
dear Charmer — just the same sweet Charmer as be- 
fore, and now Mrs. Fergueson. And, Elizabeth, 
to find you is the one great wish of her heart — of 
all our hearts. Let us go to her at once.” 

“ My rounds for the day are just finished ; this is 
the last place,” said Elizabeth. “ Yes, let me go to 
see Elsie.” 

“ And we have such wonders to tell each other — 


CROOKED PLACES MADE STRAIGHT. 297 


you and I, Elizabeth,” said Richard. “ All these 
years I have been looking for you, and never found 
any one who seemed to me quite so true and brave 
and good as the poor little Prodigy and the little 
Elizabeth of Poplar Court.” 

Elizabeth shivered : 

“ Richard, I wake up at night even now from 
dreadful dreams of Poplar Court, with its rats and 
its fever memories and its delirium tremens raging.” 

“ Now I think of it, Elizabeth, you must come 
home with me, for Elsie and her husband are com- 
ing there to tea with Gran and Benje. They will 
not be there for over an hour after us, and you will 
have time to tell all your story to 1 me and Benje/ 
and to hear ours.” 

Elizabeth smiled at the old phrase. 

Richard called a cab, and they drove to Elizabeth’s 
lodgings, and he waited in the cab while she went 
up to make ready. She came down after a time 
with her “ nurse’s dress ” laid aside and wearing a 
gray silk and a lace collar which she had worn when 
living with the friend who had been her first patient. 
A fair, sweet woman looked Elizabeth in her shim- 
mering gray gown and a gray hat with a cluster of' t 
blue violets under the brim. 

“ How glad Benje will be to see you !” said Rich- 
ard. 

Then, when they reached Richard’s home, the 
first thing was to surprise Benje, and then to see the 


298 


RAG FAIR AND MAY FAIR. 


whole house, and then to sit in the little drawing- 
room, Elizabeth between the two brothers while she 
told her story of privation, toil, struggle, help, hope, 
the present of useful work. 

And the story of Richard and Benje was untold 
when the Charmer arrived with Gran. Then all 
was to be told over again, and dinner came in be- 
fore Elizabeth heard the Charmer’s story. After 
that Richard narrated his adventures and Benje’s. 
And now they could laugh at some things which 
had made them cry before. 

“ And where is the dear old Jew Jacob?” asked 
Elizabeth. 

“ He died two years ago.” 

“ Well, I must go straight down stairs. and shake 
hands with Auberle and Mistress Maypinn ;” and 
when she came up, “ It was to that very Mrs. May- 
pinn I sold my hair.” 

“ And, dearest Elizabeth, I know it was your hair 
that Mrs. Tillman bought. And, now I think of it, 
I am sure you were the poor girl Lady Hobart 
found in the Green Park,” cried the Charmer. 

But Richard did not that night tell Elizabeth 
the story of poor Betty and her misfortunes ; that 
would have been too sad. 

“ You must come home with me to-night, Eliza- 
beth,” said Elsie ; “ you belong to me always. It is 
half-past ten ; are you ready to go ?” 

“ Yes, but not with you, dear ; I have my rounds 


CROOKED PLACES MADE STRAIGHT. 299 


to make early. I could not desert my sick people 
so.” 

“ I am going to take Elizabeth home ; I have 
ordered a cab,” said Richard, decidedly. 

So the others went away, and Richard and Benje 
stood under the chandelier in the pleasant drawing- 
room with Elizabeth between them. 

“ Elizabeth,” said Richard, “you know we 
planned that I was to be a doctor and have a three- 
story brick house and make money. I am a doctor, 
and here is the house, and I am making some money 
— enough, at least.” 

“ The planning has turned out well,” cried she, 
gayly. 

“ But we also planned that you were to come and 
live with me, and to share all that I had, Elizabeth.” 

“And why can’t Elizabeth come now?” demanded 
Benje. 

“ Why not, Elizabeth ?” said Richard. 

“ There are my poor patients, you know, Rich- 
ard.” 

“ I know. There is exactly the right kind of 
nurse at King’s College Hospital just finished her 
training; she can take your place, Elizabeth, and 
you, according to our means, can be the Lady Boun- 
tiful of the whole district — your nurse’s tower of 
refuge.” 

“ But — but I was trained, you know, for a special 
purpose, and my friend devoted that much money 


300 RAO FAIR AND AND MAY FAIR. 

to do that very work. If, now, I throw away my 
training — ” 

“ You will never throw it away ; you will always 
be more useful for that training and for your ex- 
periences, Elizabeth. Besides, we will make that 
good also. You and I will find some suitable girl 
and give her just the course in nursing which you 
took. Now, Elizabeth, there can never be to me 
but one Elizabeth in all the world. You shared 
my miserable boyhood; share now my fortunate 
manhood. Why not, Elizabeth ?” 

“ Why not ?” echoed Benje. 

“ There is — no reason why not,” said Elizabeth. 


AFTER-THOUGHT. 

INASMUCH. 

“ If I had dwelt ” — so mused a tender woman, 

All fine emotions stirred 

Through pondering o’er that Life, divine yet human, 
Told in the sacred word — 

“ If I had dwelt of old, a Jewish maiden, 

In some Judean street, 

Where Jesus walked, and heard his word so laden 
With comfort strangely sweet, 

u And seen the face where utmost pity blended 
With each rebuke of wrong, 

I would have left my lattice, and descended, 

And followed with the throng. 

u If I had been the daughter, jewel-girdled 4 
Of some rich rabbi there, 

Seeing the sick, blind, halt, my blood had curdled, 
At sight of such despair, 

“ And I had wrenched the sapphires from my fillet, 
Nor let one spark remain : 

Snatched up my gold, amid the crowd to spill it, 

For pity of their pain. 


301 


302 


AFTER-THOUGHT. 


“ I would have let the palsied fingers hold me ; 
I would have walked between 
The Marys and Salome while they told me 
About the Magdalene. 


“‘Foxes have holes’ — I think my heart had broken 
To hear the words so said — 

‘ While Christ had not’ — were sadder ever spoken? — 

‘ A place to lay his head.’ 

“ I would have flung abroad my doors before him, 

And in my joy have been 

First on the threshold, eager to adore him, 

And crave his entrance in.” 

Ah ! would you so? Without a recognition 
You passed Him yesterday, 

Jostled aside unhelped his mute petition, 

And calmly went your way. 

With warmth and comfort, garmented and girdled — 
Before your window-sill 

Sweep heart-sick crowds ; and if your blood is curdled, 
You wear your jewels still. 

You catch aside your robes lest Want should clutch them 
In its implorings wild, 

Or lest some woeful penitent might touch them, 

And you be thus defiled. 

O dreamers dreaming that your faith is keeping 
All service free from blot, 

Christ daily walks your streets, sick, suffering, weeping, 
And ye perceive him not ! 


Margaret J. Preston. 












